Walls for the Winds
by Nerdyesque
Summary: AU   Eric meets his match. SPOILER ALERT: If you haven't read up to Book 8 of CH's series or watched season 3 of True Blood then you shouldn't read this series. Some chapters are rated M for language and implied sexuality. Eric/OC  INDEFINITE HIATUS
1. The Wayfarer

___**A/N:**_ **I enjoyed (most) of the books, so I will loosely follow that timeline, but I also liked aspects of the show so I'll incorporate some of those elements as well. There will also be additions, deletions, and distortions to allow my character's insertion into CH's world. My Sookie won't be of fairy descent as I always thought it was a cop out to explain her attraction to most of the Sup world and the least believable aspect of her character. As I read the books, it struck me as strange how much older Eric was than most of the other vampires he encountered. The more I thought about it, the more I began to think of how he would react to meeting someone as old, or even older than he (who isn't his maker). I'd started another vampire storyline, but it never went anywhere despite how much I enjoyed the female vampire I created. Eventually she whapped me upside the head and told me she deserved to meet Eric, and thusly this twisted story was born. She is of a different nationality (as we think of it now) than Eric, but has experience with his people's ancestors. This chapter focuses wholly on her and I hope she intrigues you enough to follow her to familiar destinations and characters.

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The Wayfarer

_She licked the blood from his lips and cried out in anger._

_Despite his greater weight, she cradled his lifeless body against her breast, small hands uselessly sweeping his dark blond hair from his sightless blue eyes. She raised her head and glared murderously at the men standing before her in the dusty paddock._

_More than one flinched when she spoke, her words cutting the air like a sharp dagger pointed directly at their hearts._

_"What in everliving hell have you done, Fechin?"_

_Fechin, her twin and elder by two minutes, stepped forward with a disdainful look at the men behind him. He faced his sister and her husband's body with the proud strength that carried him through his life until now._

_"I righted the wrong Arngeir wrought when he stole you from our family, sister," his voice used with the same lethal precision as hers._

_Black brows flew up in surprise before bending into a forbidding frown. Carefully she laid her beloved against the dirt with a kiss to his bearded cheek before standing to her full height, several inches shorter than the shortest man before her._

_"He could not steal what was rightfully his," she softly answered._

_"He was the enemy, or have you forgotten his men sweeping our coasts and raiding the villages. Raping." Thwarted rage turned his eyes dark, memories of his dead wife rising to haunt him._

_"It was not him that did this. He came in peace, tired of the conflict."_

_"Ah yes, a mere bard." He stepped closer before darting around her to grab the dead man's hand. "A bard with calluses that prove years gripping an axe or sword. A man of peace, surely."_

_His words inflamed her temper, his touch inciting a killing rage. She roared a wordless battle shout and barreled her smaller body into his. She did not care that this was her twin, flesh of her flesh. He dared to come into her home with words of reconciliation before renting the fabric of her existence with a well placed dagger in the back of her husband._

_Fechin, a trained warrior from childhood, did not hesitate. He released Arngeir's hand and drew the sword at his hip reflexively, the tip easily parting the whiteness of her breast and thrust deeper until nearly the whole length was embedded in her chest. A twist of his wrist carved the wound deeper until her life's blood jettisoned from the hole in deep purple red spurts. A deep soughing sound rushed through the encircled men as they watched their lord kill his own sister._

_Eyes of jade locked with his, boundless rage and sorrow twinned, reflecting between them for an eternal moment before she fell, her body landing backwards across Arngeir._

_Shock and terrible pleasure filled him as he viewed the destruction of the last half hour. Lifting eyes the same color as his slain sister, he viewed his audience._

_"They were attacked by raiders. We managed to scare them away, but not before they regrettably slew these two."_

_No one dared contradict his words as they finally understood the light in his eyes - madness._

_She lay where she'd fallen, yet somehow unfeeling of the deadly damage done to her body. The light of the spring day was gone and replaced by a dingy gray, as if the world bled colors as she bled life._

_She'd been raised Christian with the tenets of faith in a God and everlasting life in Heaven beside him. However, she did not wish to go to this sterile place because Arngeir would not be there. He was already ensconced in his Valhalla, the place where warriors were graced with an eternity of ale, women, and joyous battle._

_Her brother was right as her husband had not just been a bard, though when he came to her in the darkest night, he'd sung lyrical poetry to entice her away. He'd raided the coast of Eire just as his people had for generations until one day he'd seen a lovely girl along the shore and laid his sword aside for the peaceful life. Arngeir had sworn upon his Gods he had not participated in the battle that slew Róisín; so in love with her Ostman, she'd trusted his word and left despite her family's protestations. Their meeting and love had been ordained and nothing in the last five years had ever made her regret her choice, despite her longing for those she left behind._

_If only her desire to reconcile with her family had not blinded her to the treachery in her brother's heart. If only she hadn't begged her husband to let Fechin and his men onto their little tract of land. If, if, if..._

_A stirring to her right brought her wandering attention back and she opened her eyes. The fact she still had some physical control of her body should have interested her, but she was deep in the gray place now._

_"Such rage. You pierce the world." The words stroked over her skin, the purring quality in the voice raising goosebumps._

_She tried to respond, but found she could not move anything beyond her eyelids. Confused by this she lay quiescent when she felt strong hands lift her._

_"Hmmmn, I have not been Called for a long time now. You intrigue me, a leanbh."_

_That was the last thing she remembered before liquid pain slammed into her and shattered her awareness of life._

* * *

I open my eyes as the sun slides behind the covering of night and gently ease from my resting place beneath the sheltering darkness of dirt. It'd been a close call this time and one I cared not to repeat, since my skin still stunk slightly of burnt flesh. In order to fully heal I would need blood and soon as I had no wish to attract unwanted attention.

The rich Louisiana loam falls from my body in waves as I shake myself clear. I'm not a vain woman, but even I am disgusted by the rankness of my body and clothes. Sighing deeply, I walk away from the hole I'd frantically dug beneath a merciless rising sun, towards the lights peeking through the trees in the distance. My bare feet are silent against the forest floor as is my passage, but the animals are not fooled and are hushed in my presence. Fortunately no astute human lingers in the darkness to be warned of the advancing predator.

The first house on the edge of the woods is dark on the first floor, but shines with light on the second. The window is pulled open so the occupant can enjoy the relative coolness of the evening and music blares out. I wince as my sensitive hearing picks up twanging echoes of some sad country song about a woman done wrong by her man. I debate about knocking on the warped front door, but doubt the owner would hear me.

A dog barking next door announces my arrival, but his presence outside at the gate told me the darkened house is unoccupied. I walk on, grimacing as the tightness of burnt skin begins giving way to peeling. I need blood now to repair the damage.

"Eh, who goes there?"

An wizened old lady stands on the road near the third house, her eyes piercing in the gathering shadows, though her human eyes have no hopes of distinguishing me unless I allow it.

"Just me, old mother," I respond respectfully.

"Child, are you mad? They stalk tonight." She points a roughly made cane in my direction. "It's no time for a youngin, especially a girl one."

A trickle of laughter bubbles in the back of my throat but I manage to quell it before it spills forth. Very little that goes bump in the night scares me; I ignore the flashes of what _does_ scare me.

"Who is stalking?"

"Them," she squeaks as howls rose in all directions. I whirl back towards the woods and realize in my hunger I had negated any sounds of other predators circling the small village - no town - I'd entered. I quickly check my mental calendar and realize there is a full moon tonight. "Them" becomes pretty clear as the first Were breaks from the treeline, his body morphing from manlike into animal.

The old lady's heart races with fright and my fangs snapped down in response to the blood lust beginning to consume me. Fortunately she is behind me and cannot see my distorted face, but the Were bounding towards me does and he attempts to stop his forward momentum as he realizes who and what I am. A fierce gladness wells within and I unsheathe the two short swords strapped to my back. The smoothness from which they slide out is a testament to the hours I spent caring for the leather and the steel blades; a day lying against the dirt hasn't harmed them any.

"Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam" I bless cheerfully, idly twirling the blades like batons.

Weres are unable to communicate with words because of their altered vocal chords, but the eyes remain humanlike in their cunning and deviousness. His panicked flailing has stopped, so I'm not taken by surprise when another Were leapt for me from the side. I sidestep the jump and punish him by raking the edge of Fragarach across his ribs before thrusting Gram into his neck. The Were's thick ruff shields him from a fatal thrust, but the spurting blood does speak to some damage.

Pain and surprise tricks his body into reforming as human and I immediately latch onto his neck with a ferociousness spurred by blood and battle lust. I have not completely surrendered to the lure, so I keep his body against mine even as I eye the first Were. The howls on the periphery tell me some of the pack have found other victims and are calling their straggling brethren to the site.

I retract my fangs enough from my victim to taunt. "Go find them with your tail tucked between your legs, puppy. This one is mine."

He paces just out of reach, whining in his agitation, but I am too strong for him to take alone and he knows it. I can see from the raggedness of his fur and the thinness showing his ribs, this Were pack is not well off. My killing tonight would prove a mercy since this is one less drain on the pack's resources. Finally the Were lopes off, his voice raising to speak of tonight's loss.

When the last drop of blood leaves my meal's body, I drop him to the earth with distaste. I rarely feast on beasts of the supernatural because of the weird metallic taste they leave in my mouth, but I had no choice this time. I could have just killed the Were and drank the human, but her frail body wouldn't have all the blood needed to sustain the necessary repairs my body requires.

I pick up my two swords and silently apologize for treating them so harshly; hunger is no excuse for neglecting to keep them in hand. I wipe the blood off with my shirt and quickly resheathe them, making a mental note to clean them properly at the next opportunity.

"Are you one of them, child?"

Speaking of humans. Or, in this case, speaking humans. I ignore the giddiness engendered by complete blood consummation and turn back to the old lady.

"No," I allow my disgust to surface. "If you wish to see morning's light you will never again lump my kind with them. We are not so at mercy of our natures." At least, not in the same way.

"Cat to their dog?" The humor is surprising especially since I can still smell and hear her fear. The thin cotton dress she wears is saturated with salty sweat and a little urine, though from the staleness, the urine is at least a day old. Whomever she belongs to does not take good care of her.

"In a manner."

A whisper of sound. "Vampire."

I use my natural speed to whip behind her, one long fingernail pressed lightly against her carotid artery. "I was never here."

"You are a figment of my imagination," she agrees. "But do you wish to wash?"

Surprise at her continued temerity in light of what she'd seen me do, I drop my finger and stand before her. "Why?"

"You are filthy and stink of blood. I have water and fresh clothing."

"Then why are you dressed so?" I make a full-body sweep of her. "They came here lured by your smell."

A blush warms her skin, or so the blood rushing to the surface informs me. "Do you want my hospitality or not?" The temper snapping in her voice is both surprising and amusing.

I shrug both mentally and physically. "Sure, why not."

The woman in the mirror looks well-rested and beautiful, her pearl-hued skin luminescent with water and light. The long strands of black hair swirl around her, both shielding and revealing the softly lush bounty of breasts, hips, and thighs to the watcher.

I am always surprised by my reflection and the mirror woman's green eyes widens with mine. My physical beauty is a weapon as surely as the two blades resting in their leather home and I care for my body as if it is a separate entity. Staring at her forces me to acknowledge I am she and she is me.

Angry with my maudlin thoughts, I turn away from myself and shut off the bathroom light before venturing back into the connected pitch-dark room where my borrowed clothes lay waiting on the bed. The old woman was a grandmother with a granddaughter about my height and weight who visits on occasion. I am unused to such short tight clothing, but know I need something to wear in order to blend in more effectively. My hair is distracting so I immediately braid it and bind it away from my face.

I ignore the teeteringly high heels lying on the floor for the moment, and lose myself in caring for my swords. When I'm satisfied they're well-honed and clean, I scoop up my gear, the damned shoes, and my weapons. I sidestep the old lady's body at the landing before going to the kitchen. I immediately see the keys she'd spoken of hanging on a hook next to the door leading out to the garage.

The car is an old model station wagon; not something I'd normally choose for myself, but worth taking because it negates me spending precious time to find and steal another one. I put my things in the backseat and quickly return to my host's prone body. I check to make sure it looks like an apparent fall down the stairs broke her neck, then press my thumb lightly to her forehead.

It is unfortunate she did not survive meeting me, but I am hunted and cannot leave any witnesses to my journey.

"Codladh sámh," I whisper softly before I leave her to her dreams.

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**A/N: I listened to "Oh Death" by Jen Titus as I crafted this piece.**

**Also any issues with the Irish Gaelic translations are entirely my own mistake as I used free translation sites:**

**a leanbh - oh child**

**Ar dheis De go raibh a anam - May he rest in peace**

**Codladh Samh - sleep well**

**The title comes from the poem by Padric Pearse, an Irish poet of some renown. The words most apt for my story:**

**"And then my heart hath told me:/These will pass,/Will pass and change, will die and be no more,/Things bright and green, things young and happy;/And I have gone upon my way/Sorrowful."**


	2. Soar the Uneven Wind

**A/N: ****This chapter introduces the audience and our heroine to familiar faces; I struggled with keeping some dialogue from the book or show intact, but ultimately felt it was unnecessary.

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Soar the Uneven Winds

The red wig itches terribly, but I ignore the urge to scratch as assiduously as I ignore the leering human males in line behind me. My focus is on the small bored blond female vampire standing guard at the door. She is the gatekeeper into this personal hell and I have no desire to arouse any interest on her part. According to my files, she is the only child of Area Five's Sheriff, one Eric Northman.

My lips twitch with reluctant amusement at his irreverent appropriation of the word "Northman." It is both an advertisement and warning of what sort of vampire he is; word has it he's over a thousand years old. I've never met him personally, but the women (both human and vampire) of the court I currently serve grow distractingly girlish at a mere mention of his name; apparently he cut quite the swath through their numbers the last few times he visited.

"Next."

I step into the red-tinged light overhead and squint slightly at the vampire. A foolish smile curves my lips and I flutter my eyelashes madly.

"License?" Her voice is slightly warmer, though her eyes are piercing as she checks out my "fangbanger" outfit of black corset, tight black leather pants, and four inch black metal-studded spiked heels. I feel naked without Fragarach and Gram strapped to my back, but figure I wouldn't get through the door so armed. If it comes to it, I could use the heels as stakes or daggers if I'm cornered, but I'd prefer to remain anonymous tonight.

"Here it is!" I dig it out from my back pocket, making sure to show off the curves of my ass delineated through the tight pants. Our fingers brush and I linger slowly before letting her take the plastic id card.

"Breather, are you flirting with me?" She barely glances at the license before she hands it back.

My neck is bare and I lean forward. "Would that help me get in?"

Her nostrils flare, but she cannot smell my flesh or blood (or lack there of) beneath the herbal scent I wear. It is a little known fact that vampires' noses are stymied by this particular blend, but of course I know and capitalize on it. A brief frown furrows her perfect brow, but smooths out when I brush a finger across her silky skin.

"I'd be very grateful."

"I never forget a face." A fanged smile accompanies her threat. "Go on, but remember no biting on the premises is allowed." Her voice lowers for my ears only. "Unless I or the Sheriff wish to."

I shiver theatrically and quickly slip through the doors, ignoring the husky laughter accompanying my hasty retreat. It behooves me to act as human as possible so I can gather the information I was sent for, but every martial instinct I possess warns me from stepping further into this tacky red-walled night club so charmingly named "Fangtasia."

The night is somewhat young, but the room is already filled nearly to bursting with foolish humans walking on the wild side and the vampires waiting to catch them when they fall. My senses are so overwhelmed, I stumble into an absurdly dressed male leaning against the bar. I say absurdly because no vampire worth their fangs would actually choose a companion wearing a denim jacket with a denim shirt tucked into denim jeans. A baseball cap and worn boots completes the outfit.

"Hey!" he cries, his tone changing when he catches sight of me. "Well, hello there."

I raise a corner of my lip. "Not a vampire."

His face falls comically, yet there is something off about his expression. I don't understand why, but my hands automatically rise to unsheathe my absent swords from over my shoulders. I immediately change my action into tucking a few fallen strands back into my low-hanging ponytail and casually glance around to make sure no one saw my instinctive reaction.

"You here to get some fang too?"

I smile winningly, sidling up close to his side. A Native American vampire is tending bar and steps towards me with a questioning air. "Water please."

My new friend scoffs at my order. "Get the pretty lady a vodka tonic instead."

The vampire shrugs and reaches for the bottle from under the bar. I look up at the denim man. "I can't drink, 'cause I hafta drive home tonight."

He grins, his white teeth glowing faintly in the low-lights. "Not planning on going home with anyone?"

I giggle and jiggle just a bit. "Well...I wanna, but I dunno."

"You look new here."

I shrug and turn my eyes away from him for a moment. It allows him to take a quick scan of my neck which is naked of any bite marks.

"My girl was in here last week and said this was a bangin' place." I allow a moment of awkward silence to unspool between us, before giggling in seeming embarrassment. "I mean...not _banging _banging...you know like fun...and..." I trail off.

"I understand," the denim man soothes me, his hand gently caressing my arm. My drink is placed at my elbow by an opening smirking vampire with a "Twelve-fifty" in low liquid tones.

"That's kind of expensive, doncha think?"

The bartender's eyes rest on my throat as he remarks, "You're paying for the experience."

I arch my chest as I slip fingers into my back pocket again. Denim man inhales sharply and mutters, "I'll get it." My eyes round with innocent pleasure and I smile widely.

"Gee, thanks mister." Inwardly I groan at my over the top response, but denim man merely grunts in return. The vampire winks at me, obviously enjoying my show, and leaves us alone.

I grab the drink and slowly sip the icy liquid through the small red straw. Most men's eyes would be on the rounding of my lips and the hollowness of my cheeks, imagining something larger and warmer in my mouth, but not my companion. His eyes restlessly scans the crowd with an edge I don't understand or like.

"What's your name? I'm Violet." I stick a hand in his direction, aware southern manners would prohibit him from ignoring me.

"Pierce." He perfunctorily shakes my hand before returning to his search. It strikes me suddenly that he's an advance guard for a larger force. I search the sea of faces and his companions stick out like sore thumbs; each is dressed differently from the other, but similar in that their pulse points are completely covered. No skin is showing aside from their faces and hands.

Grim amusement fills me as I realize these men aren't here for entertainment, but disruption. Ten to one they are law enforcement determined to round up the usual suspects. I wonder if the Sheriff or his child is aware of what they allowed into their club, but mentally shrug. He's neither my liege or master, so it's no concern of mine.

"Well, Pierce, you're a scintillating conversationalist, but I wanna have some fun."

Sharp brown eyes swing towards me as my fangbanger guise slips in a moment of distraction. "Scintillating, eh?" he mocks softly.

"Yeah, it was the word of the day on my calendar," I flirt back, making sure to subtly rub my breasts into his arm. A small moue of distaste flits across his face before he steps back from me and the danger I apparently pose.

"Be careful."

"I always am. I made sure to bring protection." I wiggle around to show him the condoms I supposedly tucked into my pants, but he waves me off.

"Fangers don't use condoms."

My eyes round with astonishment. "That's just wrong. How else am I gonna protect myself against pregnancy?"

His belief in my stupidity and naivety is firmly cemented by my idiotic comment. Vampires are made not born. "Yeah, well, um..good luck with that." Pity and a darker emotion fill his eyes briefly before he completely dismisses me out of hand.

I drift from his side, catching the eye of the Native American bartender again. He calls out to me by name, a sure sign he'd been listening, and aims a fang-free smile at me when I come closer.

"You looking for a good time, eh little girl?"

I manage an affronted expression. "I'm not "little!" I'm twenty-two."

His fangs peek out as his lips curve into a salacious grin. "I'm almost a hundred and twenty-two."

"Oh." I suck some more vodka down then ask timidly. "What's your name, mister? It's not fair you know mine."

"Long Shadow."

I mouth his name, making sure to exaggerate it. His eyes never leave me and I can feel the slight push of his mind into mine. Among vampires, it is rude to exert will over another unless they serve you, but it is common to do so with humans. Glamour is the pretty word mortals use to dress up an ugly practice. I must allow it or he'll suspect I'm different and my cover will be blown.

Every vampire has a special gift or talent they take with them into their second life, and mine is the ability to hide my nature. If no one knows to look for me, they will never see me if I don't wish them to or know me as a Supe. His intrusion makes my skin crawl and my fingers curl around invisible sword hilts. Fortunately the bar is between us and he cannot see my physical reaction to his presence.

"You will not find another vampire companion, but tamely wait here until my shift ends. You want to belong to me."

His eyes are black, even with my clear night vision, and glow with unearthly power. I wonder what his gift is, but know I will probably never know. It's uncommon for vampires to share themselves with others outside their nests.

"I want to belong to you," I intone quietly, my face slack with bewitchment. He raises a hand towards me and I step closer so he may touch me.

"Well, well, well, Long Shadow. Found yourself a playmate I see."

The low husky tones wrap silken ties around me, each syllable a drip of sensation across my suddenly overly sensitized flesh. His words are an erotic invitation to look at him and I see..._Arngeir_?

"Cuisle mo chroí!" words I've not spoken in time and a half whisper in the small distance between us. Arngeir's twin steps closer to me, curiosity filling his ice blue eyes.

"Vem är du?"

His accent is Swedish, not Norwegian like my lost husband, and though there is only the slightest difference betwixt the two, it snaps me from my fascination. Taking a large mental step away, I can now see the physical differences between the men: Eric is younger, taller, and blonder. My eyes blink in disbelief as I note his clean-shaven cheeks.

"I thought Vikings had beards? Or did you die unproven?"

Eric's lips twitch, though with amusement or anger I'm unsure. "I had shaved for my lady wife before I was turned. She preferred her thighs to remain smooth." My heart, if it still beat, would've missed a note at the unsubtle innuendo. It brought images of my husband doing the same so my skin would not be scraped raw by the bristles of his beard.

Long Shadow, irritated by the interruption, murmurs, "Can I have my playmate back, Sheriff?"

"Sheriff? Like the dude from Nottingwood?" I allow breathy Valley girl to slip back into my voice, so as it distract Eric from my break in character. This place is dangerous to my mental and physical health if I don't keep it together.

A blond brow arches. "Nottingwood?"

"Yeah, you know, the Sheriff who hates Robin Hood." My tone implies, "Duh."

"Nottingham. He was the Sheriff of Notting_ham_." Interest leaches from his expression and boredom fills his eyes. I smile widely and step closer to him, making sure to press my much smaller body into his.

"Wanna tell me more?"

"Not really. I believe you were talking to Long Shadow." He stalks away, the power of his presence parting the crowds like the Red Sea before Moses. I idly wonder if the cell phone in his hand is akin to the god-given staff the Egyptian prince-cum-Jewish prophet carried into the desert, but wave away such speculation as silly.

"Violet." The anger underlying my borrowed name assaults me and for the fiftieth time tonight I bitterly resent the absence of my blades. Long Shadow awaits my attention impatiently, his dark beauty marred by a heavy frown.

"Yes?" The sun would rival me for brightness in my overly sugary tone.

He growls. Actually growls like a Were. "Never mind."

I manage to slip into the teeming crowd, keeping a wary eye on Long Shadow while attempting to ignore the pull of the viking on his gaudy golden throne. My attention is helplessly drawn back to him time and again as he taps away on his cell while ignoring the obeisance of obnoxious fangbangers and their ilk.

An hour of fascination passes before Pam wends her way to his side and whispers something in his ear. His entire demeanor changes and he perks up. I follow his eyes and see a young blond woman standing next to a vampire. I do not recognize the human, but I do know her companion.

A blunt Anglo-Saxon word brushes my mind as I stare at the couple. What the _fuck _is Bill Compton doing here?

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**A/N:**

**The title of this chapter is a strand of lyrics from Fiona Apple's "As Fast As You Can."**

**My (perhaps faulty) translation of the Irish Gaelic and Swedish exhange:**

**Cuisle mo chroí - pulse of my heart**

**Vem är du? - who are you?**


	3. Hell on Heels

**A/N: SPOILER ALERT: If you haven't read up to Book 8 of CH's series or watched season 3 of True Blood then you should skip this chapter. Violet reveals more about her purpose in Shreveport; some of it involves secrets about Sookie and Bill. Also, I used dialogue directly lifted from True Blood: Season 1, Episode 4 "Escape from Dragon House," because I just can't resist Alexander Skarsgard's Eric.**

Hell on Heels

My heels tap a staccato beat of impending doom similar to the infamous three notes from Jaws as I make my way to Bill's side. There are no other beings in existence except him and his _date_.

I step behind him as he says, "That's Eric. He's the oldest thing in this bar," in response to his companion's artful question. Both their gazes are drawn to the throne, just as some impertinent fool crosses the line and throws himself at the viking in desperation. Eric barely acknowledges the human before he kicks him away.

The force of the man's body crunching the table brings hungry eyes to him, especially when a sliver of wood slices a thin bloody furrow across his balding forehead. My well-developed sense of danger warns me when I note the fanged female who approaches the wounded male. Her invitation and subsequent departure with him is surely noted by the officers peppering the crowd. I covertly scan the bar for my denim clad friend, but see he's gone.

A few seconds later Eric waves languid fingers in our direction, but I'm not so foolish to believe he is summoning me, or even sees me in the shadows. He is intrigued by Bill and his companion, though more so by the woman. Before I can even alert Bill to my presence, he leads the blond towards the dais and I'm left with my frustration.

I'm pretty sure the female is the infamous Sookie Stackhouse, though of course I can't be completely certain since I've only heard about her from her cousin Hadley. If it is indeed her, Bill Compton has much to answer for: the Queen of Louisiana had tasked him with acquiring her services without alerting the Sheriff to the presence of a telepath in his Area. Though Eric is part of her retinue, Sophie-Anne is increasingly suspicious of how loyal he is to her.

Having met him I wonder how much of it is loyalty issues versus feminine pique because he's always refused her bed, couching his refusals in flowery language accounting for shite; or so Court gossip would have it. Regardless of the impetus of her anger, I was sent to Shreveport to ascertain if Eric is truly trustworthy.

Now Compton wanders in here with the very prize the Queen desires. There is no love lost between the two males, so his presence in Eric's territory is highly questionable, especially since he wasn't granted dispensation. If I could yank off my shoe and stake Compton with the heel, I would in a human heartbeat.

There is nothing I can do to stop this farce, so I maneuver myself as close to the small group as I can without looking too suspicious. A sharp-eyed Pam lounges against the throne, but I am not fooled by her seeming casualness. One wrong movement could end in a very unpleasant manner for one of us should she notice anything.

One of the officers is swaying next to me, his rapid pulse and shifting eyes gives away his purpose, even if I hadn't realized it by his clothing.

I bump into him and gape at him drunkenly. "Sssteve, is that you?"

The officer ignores me, but I persist, throwing my arms around his neck. "Ssteve it is you!"

He is too polite to shrug me off, especially since I'm tottering in heels, but anger glints in his eyes. "Ma'am, I'm not your "Steve." I'm Hal."

I slap his face, managing to pull most of my strength so I don't slap him dead. "Oh, so tonight you're "Hal," but the other night you were Steve." I curl into his chest with sobbing heaves, managing to turn us for a better view of the conversation. Unfortunately Bill and Sookie stand in front of the throne so I can't see Northman's face. His tone, however, is not encouraging.

"Bill Compton, it has been awhile."

And it should have been even longer if Compton wasn't such a fucking failure. I hold back the snarl gathering in my throat, still cognizant of the human I'm using as a shield.

"Yes, well I've been..."

"...mainstreaming. I heard." Eric pauses and I sense his burning gaze on Sookie. "I see that it is going well for you."

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, my fangs snap down at the sexy growly emphasis he places on his words. I burrow even further into my dance partner's burly chest so no one can see my mouth as I calm down.

"Ma'am, leave me alone or I'll...I'll..." the officer's words trail off as he can't complete the thought with "I'll arrest you," since he's undercover and I've yet to break any law.

"Vår lilla djurpark börjar växa till sig."

"Jag vet."

My head rotates as the quick exchange between Eric and Pam registers. What the hell am I missing while messing with this twit? I look up into Hal's eyes and bend his mind slightly.

"Your name is Steve and you're only pretending to be Hal because we slept together the other night and you're feeling guilty for cheating." His gold ring is hard to miss since it's on the hand currently trying to pry me away from him. "You will back peddle away from me and go directly out the door, to your car, and will pick up flowers for your wife on the way home. You won't hear anyone who tries to stop you."

"I'm...teve," he agrees with a stutter. He's abnormally strong-minded for a human, and is starting to slip from my hold.

"We slept together." Maybe I poured too much info into his brain all at once. It's been awhile since I've bothered to glamour a human, so I'm a bit rusty.

"We slept together." His mouth turns up into a shit-eating grin. Obviously that part of my command caters to his inflated sense of self. I eye the extra twenty pounds pouring over his belt and shudder in revulsion.

"You want to go home."

"I want to go home."

"You want to give your wife flowers."

"I want to give my wife flowers."

"No one will stop you."

"No one will stop me."

I release his mind then push him away from me. "You're married? Pig!"

Hal blinks rapidly at me then stares at his ring. "I've never cheated before this. I need to go home." He turns rapidly and strides towards the door, ignoring a man who steps from the shadows with a frown. Smugness fills me as I see the undercover agent trail behind him outside; one less problem to worry about.

Fortunately my little staged drama didn't attract any notice from the four on the dais. Unfortunately, Sookie is now seated on Eric's right, the side traditionally reserved for a vampire's chosen companion.

"So, Bill. Are you quite...attached...to your friend?"

Do not say it, Compton. _Do _not.

"She is mine."

Swear words in six different languages fills my brain as I fight to keep a hold on my temper. For the first time tonight I am glad for the absence of my weapons, otherwise I might not be held accountable for the bloodshed I want to commit.

"Yes, I am his."

My body actually vibrates with the strength of all-consuming blood lust as I wrangle with my desire to introduce Bill to the final death. His assertion that Sookie is "his," just whets the Sheriff's desire for her even more; the human does nothing for herself by agreeing. Nor do I believe she understands exactly what she just did.

Eric's thoughtful "What a pity. For _me_," merely ratchets up my tension.

I close my eyes when I start seeing the scene in shades of gray. So far no one has noticed my freak out, but if I don't get a hold of myself _right now,_ they will.

"Sit with us. We have catching up to do, you and I. It has been...too...long." I smell Bill's tension and want to smile, but fear my fangs will show. Serves him right for alerting the Sheriff to his illegal presence. The creaking wood signals Bill's acquiesce to Eric's politely worded command to sit, and I squinch my eyes open just a little in time to see the uncomfortable glances flashing between him and Sookie.

Again my well-developed sense of self-preservation kicks in; there's something else going on here beyond Compton's disregard of vampiric protocol.

"We have to get out of here."

"Sookie," Bill begins warningly, but she cuts him off.

"Eric," I raise a brow at her temerity at addressing him so familiarly on such short notice. "The cops are coming, there's going to be a raid."

How the hell...I glance around me and see another of denim man's associates; she must have overheard his thoughts.

So she _is _telepathic. This changes the game considerably.

"Tell me you're not an undercover cop." The menace in Eric's voice is clear. If she were, she would not live to see tomorrow.

"I'm not, but that man in the hat is." Suddenly four pairs of eyes are staring in my direction, though I know they're staring at the officer behind me. Pam's eyes slide over me consideringly, a secretive smile playing on her red-polished lips.

"Even if you're right, we do nothing illegal here."

_Or at least not in a way you can get caught_, I silently finish for him. I can smell the life blood from here and figure the recently turned female vampire is unable to control her hunger around the wounded male she took and is draining him.

"There's a vampire named Terran in the Ladies Room with that man you kicked before. She's feeding on him."

Okay, that's just creepy. Can she read vampires' thoughts too? Heaven help her if she can, because no one else will.

My thoughts and their conversation is interrupted by shouts of "Police!" I turn and see my denim man now clad in riot gear with a few more like-minded individuals behind him. A rush of air tickles my back and I know the others are gone. If they don't catch Eric on the premises, they can't detain him.

Rolling my eyes at the feeble attempts of the officers to corral the vampires in the nightclub, I ease my way through the panicked human crowd, bumping and pushing at strategic moments so I can bypass the two SWAT team members stationed at the door. Once outside I'm a shadow in the night as I streak past the ring of police cars and SWAT vans barricading the parking lot.

There are only a few hours before sunrise, and I need to make the most of my time left.

* * *

**A/N:**

**The title was inspired by Hinder's "All American Nightmare."**

**The Swedish exchange between Eric and Pam is from the show, so any errors are (for once) not my fault.**

**"Vår lilla djurpark börjar växa till sig." - Our little zoo is starting to grow**

**"Jag vet." - I know**


	4. Between the Sacred Silence and the Sleep

**A/N: I always try to stretch my creative muscles when I write a story, and Violet demands more of me than most characters in recent memory. I've never created a warrior woman before, so it was interesting trying to write a credible fight scene (hopefully it worked out). A slight warning here about the level of violence: my vampires (and CH natch) are not sparkly animal cradling beings, but vicious blood-suckers who have to scratch and claw their way up the ranks; once at the pinnacle they wield their power with a brutal hand.

* * *

**

Between the Sacred Silence and the Sleep

"So my crow has returned." Private amusement threads her tone. "News?"

I do not raise my eyes. "Your Majesty is correct."

Her barefeet are silent against the cold marble floor, but silky material slithers against her skin as she stalks towards my prone body; the _sssssssssssssshing _sound is grating because of the memories it invokes. I've spent enough time in Sophie-Anne's Court to remain stock-still when her fingers touch the curve of my bare neck before curling in the loosened hair at my nape. Her fingernails are lethally sharp and she digs them into my scalp, blood rising to the surface and matting the hair.

"Did you see Eric?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Did you fuck him?" Her hand draws back, forcing me to look into her gorgeous face. I avoid direct eye contact as I have no desire to feel her claws slice me open.

"No, Ma'am."

"Good, good. I do not wish to replace you, my little messenger." A smile curls the corner of her kissably pink lips. "How is my dear Sheriff?"

I focus on her pale red hair drawn up into a Gibson Girl coif, so I will not offend her by avoiding her beauty, yet at the same time convey my appreciation of her form. It is a delicate dance when appeasing a monarch.

"He is...well, Ma'am." My hesitation is calculated. I need to give her this information in the correct way so she won't do something foolish.

"What is wrong?" Thankfully she withdraws from my scalp in her agitation, but I don't dare change the angle of my head.

"There was a raid upon his establishment the night I met him, Ma'am."

"So? The human enforcers constantly attempt to find illegal activity in any vampire establishment."

"There was a newly turned child eating her dinner in the lavatory, Ma'am."

Disgust twists her mouth into a pretty pout, but then there are few expressions she uses that don't draw attention to her delicate features. If vampires could wrinkle like humans, there is no doubt Sophie-Anne would fund anti-aging research to eradicate it completely.

"Was he apprehended?"

"No, Ma'am"

"Good, good. " She finally walks away from me and I bend forward over my folded knees again.

"What did you discuss with him?"

The moment of truth: I may want to punish Compton for his stupidity, but I have no desire to hand the human over to the Louisiana Queen just yet. There is a way to turn it to my advantage if I proceed carefully.

"Ma'am, I did not actually speak to the Sheriff. He was otherwise occupied." I don't hear her return, but the flesh along my spine splits open beneath her irritated swipe. "William Compton introduced Sookie Stackhouse to him." My words nearly tumble over the other as I throw the other vampire to her ire.

"You saw Sookie? My cousin, Sookie?"

Until now I could pretend we were alone, but the breathless words breaking the silence reminds me the Court is watching every moment of this humiliation. The slight sounds and smells of a vampire group permeates the environment and I nearly choke on my rage. I am well-versed in Court etiquette, however, so none of my true feelings are reflected in my body language.

"Answer her, Crow."

I sit up and look at Hadley, the Queen's current companion. Her kohl-rimmed eyes latch onto mine for a brief moment, hope swirling in their blue depths before she drops her gaze. I may be the Queen's whipping girl, but I still have a higher standing then a mere Pet.

"Mr. Compton claimed Sookie Stackhouse as his. Otherwise she seems very healthy."

Sophie-Anne hisses, her fangs extended in anger. "He dares! He fucking dares!" Her anger isn't for the vampire's claim, but that he defied her direct orders about alerting Eric.

I nod respectfully. "The girl confirmed his ownership." I neglect to share my suspicions Sookie is unaware of what exactly she agreed to, but even if I had, Sophie-Anne would've rightly scoffed. Humans have no rights in our world.

"Do you have direct knowledge of her alleged telepathy?" The question is directed at me, but the conflicted tone is not.

I sensed tension between the Queen and her Pet the moment I returned to Court a week ago, yet had no understanding of the cause until now. Sophie-Anne is infamous for her short attention span with her human lovers, and Hadley attempted to extend her time by telling her of her weird cousin Sookie.

Compton was sent to discover the truth and apprehend the girl anyway he saw fit, but obviously he hasn't confirmed it for the Queen. Hadley's future hinges on my answer.

"It was through her direct intervention that the Sheriff escaped detention by law enforcement. I ascertained there were officers in the crowd, but Sookie couldn't have known unless she read their minds, Ma'am."

Sophie-Anne steps behind me, the silk of her gown brushing against the open wound on my back. "Good, good." I somehow manage not to blanch when she drags her fingertips through my ruined flesh, the reflective tone of her words chilling me. "You've brought me valuable information, but you failed in your main duty."

"Ma'am?"

"You were instructed to insert yourself into Eric's Area to observe him, yet you came back without discovering if he's a traitor or not."

_Stupid, stupid._ For once I'd reacted without thinking through all the consequences. I allowed my dislike for Compton to overwhelm my good sense.

However, this might deflect some of her anger. "As a result of this latest raid, he's short a waitress. The police found a vial of V in her purse when they rounded up everyone. The Sheriff's child placed an ad in the paper and I'm scheduled for an interview."

Sophie-Anne stops twisting her fingers in my back and bends close to my ear so none of the others can overhear our exchange. "He thinks you're human?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Excellent!" She straightens and claps her hands together like a child given the best gift on Christmas. "I won't have to kill my messenger since you did bring me useful information, but I still need to punish you."

A snap of her fingers brings a towering blond vampire to her side. "Sigebert, what should I do with her?" The vampire, one of her children, sends me a fangy grin. "Play with her."

This exchange is pointless since they can mindspeak one another, but where would be the fun? A rumble goes through the watching Court as everyone present understands what her hulk means: "play" is code for inventive torture.

Andre, another child and her undeclared consort, appears as if out of nowhere with connected bracelets made of hammered silver lying on a platter. Humans might call them handcuffs, but the word is so indelicate when considering the craftsmanship going into their creation. Despite the circumstances, I can appreciate their shiny beauty.

I dutifully hold out my wrists and steel myself (no pun intended) to absorb the burning pain once the silver touches my skin. Andre, wearing gloves, smirks as he adjusts the links until the thick cuffs are flush against me with little slack in the connecting chain. The stink of burning flesh, so recently erased from memory, assaults my nose again.

"Terms?"

_I will bear this pain, I will bear this pain. My hands aren't really rotting off from silver poisoning. I will bear this pain. _

This isn't just punishment, but a Queen's reminder of how my life is a feather on her scales with only her thumb holding it level. However much I loathe and hate her with every eternal moment of my body, I owe her my undying fealty.

"Hand to hammer combat," Sophie-Anne cheerfully announces as she sashays towards her throne, a large gilded chair at the back of the room. She is making way for Sigebert and I to square off in the center. "Fight to the first fang; whoever drinks blood is declared winner."

Gasps from breathless vampires sounds like a striking match and I feel as if my body is the tinder to fuel their anticipation and hunger. Blood slicks my back and trails down between my buttocks and lower; I can hear the faint pling, pling, of droplets hitting the marble floor. Strands of my hair are caught up in the wound and feel like brand of fire, but I ignore it as I size up my opponent.

Sigebert was a Saxon warrior in his first life and it shows even through the suit he wears: short blond hair except for the two chin-length braids on either side of his temples, barrel chest, corded arms from years of lifting heavy armament, and thickly muscled thighs and calves. Even his bare feet look solid. He's what Arnold tried to achieve with steroids and other drugs at the peak of his Mr. Universe days.

The hammer Sophie-Anne speaks of so lightly is an instrument of war and death, made to transmit a solid impact with a spike at each edge to penetrate the thinnest part of armor. Since I'm only wearing the skin I died in, he has quite the advantage.

So, for a recap, he outmuscles me, outweighs me, outheights me (by at least twelve inches), and outweapons me. Yeah, this is fair.

"Commencez!"

The whistle of the hammer clears my self-pity in a hurry as I am forced to bend backwards to avoid it slamming into my face. I am armed only with wits and flexibility, so I need to pay attention to his weaknesses.

It take a few minutes of dancing around his swings before I see the first tell. He protects his left knee and overcompensates by setting his right heel in and swinging from the shoulders instead of the hips. This leaves his neck and upper back briefly vulnerable, but I can't reach it due to the disparity in our height.

A rough and dirty plan occurs to me as I see Sigebert overextending himself a second time in the same manner. If I can just get inside his arms where his hammer reach is nil, I have a chance. The only problem is making it look accidental instead of on purpose; he's too experienced a warrior to fall for any obvious feint.

I leap away from a sword-like thrust forward and rake my fingernails up his arm on the back flip that sails me over his shoulder to land behind him. The quiet giant merely grunts and sidestep the carefully aimed kick to his kidneys. He turns unexpectedly and catches my hip with the handle as I close in to climb him like a tree; I can see the wheels in his brain working as he judges my feet.

A good fighter always looks to the feet...and that's how I'll trick him. If he 's too busy looking in one direction, he'll never see me coming the other way. A simple and cliche philosophy, but there are only so many options I have especially since the silver's eaten through my flesh and is starting in on the bones of my wrists. There are no words to express how badly this will end if my hands fall off before I can outwit Sigebert. I purposely block memories of other fights I've lost.

Now to lure him into a false sense of superiority.

I'm able to nimbly stay out of the reach of his hammer, but know I can't do this forever. Sophie-Anne is easily bored and could change the perimeters of our fight at any moment. On the pretext of slipping in my own blood pooled around us, I allow one spike to embed in my tricep so he reels me in closer, his fangs fully extended with his excitement.

I scream as he wrenches the hammer head free and throws it to the side, nearly ripping my arm off in the process; I'm within his embrace and won't have another chance before his teeth or blood loss finishes me. He lifts me to his mouth so I raise my bound wrists and press the silver against his eyes.

Sigebert instinctively drops me to grab at his scorched skin, but I wrap my legs around his waist and whip around to his vulnerable neck. The thin slice of skin between his hairline and the shirt collar is enough; I sink my fangs in and draw deep draughts of his blood.

"Assez! Assez! le relâcher ou de mourir de la mort finale."

The silky warmth unfurling inside of me is familiar and welcome; intoxicating even. I am as safe and sheltered as a baby swaddled in its mother's arms.

"Vous êtes le tuer! son arrêt. Tuez-la, la tuer."

I don't even feel the hammer as it crushes my skull.

* * *

_An bhfuil an spéir?_

_No, leanbh, níl aon spéir duit . Ní féidir leat a bás._

_An mbeidh mé wander an domhain gan é go deo?_

_Éirigí. Fanann sé ar do shon._

_

* * *

_**A/N:**

**I'm horrible at thinking up titles, so once again I stole from others: lyrics from "Toxicity" by System of a Down. This chapter demanded a bit more in terms of language and again I resorted to free translation sites.**

**French ~**

"**Commencez!"- begin**

"**Assez! Assez! le relâcher ou de mourir de la mort finale." - Enough! Enough! release him or die the final death**

**Vous êtes le tuer! son arrêt. Tuez-la, la tuer. - You are killing him! Stop her! Kill her, kill her.**

**Irish gaelgi ~**

**An bhfuil an spéir?**_** - **_**Is this heaven?**

**No, leanbh. Níl aon spéir duit . Ní féidir leat a bás. - No, child. There is no heaven for you. You cannot die.**

**An mbeidh mé wander an domhain gan é go deo? - Will I wander the earth without him forever?**

**Éirigí. Fanann sé ar do shon. – Arise. He waits for you.**


	5. Waking Eternally

**A/N: For some reason the scene from 300 where the Spartan king kicks the messenger into the abyss while screaming "This...is...Sparta!" kept popping into my mind as I began writing this chapter. For the first time ever, I felt some sympathy for the messenger. He was just doing his job, a very thankless task, so did he really deserve death? What would've happened had he been able to climb out of the hole? How would he have handled his return to life? This is my answer to those questions.

* * *

**

Waking Eternally

_He stared up into the star-strewn sky and hoped his mother's God stared back. I am too young to die, he silently cried. I want to live! He held his breath in anticipation of a heavenly sign his prayer was heard, but moments ticked by with only the moaning of the wounded men around him as answer. His mother had lied and he would be lost on the winding path before help, mortal or not, found him in this field of horror._

_A flutter of movement teased his consciousness and he tried to move his head to see, but excruciating agony tore through him from the ragged wound on his neck._

_"Shh, do not move mo laochra beag."_

_The silken voice came from a patch of darkness somehow darker than the night, yet it is the Irish words that are more surprising; his people's tongue was outlawed and brought a charge of treason should they be spoken._

_"An bhfuil tú aingeal?"_

_Soft hands brushed his hair from his eyes. "No, I am not an angel." _

_Wonder touched him. "Dia?" _

_"God as a woman? Would the Church survive?"_

_The dry humor in her voice tingled through him and he laughed despite the pain movement invokes._

_"You are Death." It seemed fitting somehow. War was a man's purview and the home was a woman's. Was Heaven not the ultimate home?_

_"Cinnte." Acknowledgement of his spoken or unspoken thought? _

_Breath barely filled his body as the life blood slowed. "Is é an rás na bhfear ainmnithe na nGael rás Dia dhéanamh cinnte mheabhair. I gcás go léir a n-cogaí Merry agus go bhfuil siad go léir ar a n-breá brónach." _

_"You are not alone."_

_It was a good moment to die and he joyfully surrendered to her embrace._

* * *

I am silent upon awakening because I am unsure of where I rest. The stench of rotting vegetation and stagnant water is overpowering so I must be interred in a stone vault near a bayou. Undead life still courses through me, though I don't know how or why. My last memory is of sinking my fangs into Sigebert to end our fight and Sophie-Anne screaming imprecations at me in French, her natal language.

My internal clock is only wound for the rising and setting of the sun, so I am unsure how much time has passed between the gladiator bout and my waking undead, though by the condition of my body I have slept at least one day. A vampire's healing speed depends on age, strength, severity of injuries, and how much blood they ingested before going to ground (so to speak). I drank the Queen's child, thereby tapping into both his power and hers that runs through his blood line, so my body had fuel to heal itself instead of cannibalizing me further.

I debate staying here until someone releases me, but I have a sneaking suspicion I would do better to attempt it myself. The stone slab above me is too thick to claw my way through so I try levering the cover open first by brute strength then with the mastery of my mind; sadly, telekinesis isn't one of my natural powers so nothing moves. I am at an impasse, however much I wish otherwise. It is then, only when I contemplate defeat, that I find the answer.

The coffin is roughly eighty-four inches long, twenty-eight inches wide, and about twenty-three inches high; obviously by these dimensions it was modeled after a modern casket. Since I cannot go through the blocky top, I must tunnel through the bottom. It feels as if I'm raised above the ground, so doubtful the builders took as much care building the base where it is unattached to the legs.

I raise my arms until my fisted hands brush the ceiling of my cell; there is no telling how much energy I will need to expend, so I need to make every blow count. With a quick prayer flung to the gods of fools, I slam the sharp points of my elbows into the stone I lay upon, listening intently for the slightest splitting noise. Alas the first few blows are unsuccessful.

I grunt as my elbows continue to hammer into stone, the rhythm slowly shaping into an ancient melody lying unused in my memory: it is startlingly clear and steeped in Irish mysticism, the language of monks long dead. Even now I cannot understand their faith in the everlasting God who so condemns the children of the night despite our likening to his three day risen son, yet it is in my appreciation for their hymns that the first chunks fall.

My bones are broken by the time I'm able to drive through the last of the weakened rock and make two small holes. It is a tight squeeze but I'm highly motivated to turn one torturous inch at a time until I'm lying face down and can reach through the openings I made. I clutch the ragged edges and push until a fissure runs alongside the entire bottom; with a loud crraaack the coffin gives way and I fall to the floor in a rush of alabaster.

I turn my head slightly to investigate my sepulchre, but there is no light and even my night vision cannot cut through the pitch black gloom. My arms refuse to hold my weight so I snake through the accumulated dust and grit until my head slams into a stone wall. Turning until my back is flush against the wall, I inch my way up to a standing position. Two small notches along the inner edges on each side tells me this isn't a wall at all but an entryway. I ignore the scrapes on my skin, my useless arms, and focus on leaving this tomb; a nice me-shaped opening is left as I shatter through the doors.

As I search my surroundings, I begin to realize I stand at the point of a finger-shaped islet jetting into a bayou and can pinpoint my location. I'm only a few miles from Sophie-Anne's court in the cemetery she uses to bury her problems, both human and supernatural. I was left to starve and madden, trapped in a stone prison until she deigned to release me, or more likely remembered where she placed me (it happened before, when she forgot about a vampire she imprisoned until three years past his initial sentence).

Regardless of her plans for me in Eric's Area, she has balled me up and disposed of me in a fit of madness. I have faithfully served her for nearly a hundred years in any capacity she's asked of me; lost the use of my feathers in a failed coup of her greatest enemy; fought on the desert sands slick with my own essence in order to free her from marital obligations, and this is how the fucking bitch repays me. It adds insult to the injuries inflicted upon my pride and body, both resulting in the course of my servitude to her.

My primal scream of rage rips through the fabric of the temporal world and shatters the peace of the night. The bullfrogs croaking on floating lily pads are silenced as they recognize the presence of an angry predator; even the alligators resting in the shallows slip away into deeper water to avoid my proximity.

Considering the angle of the moon, there are a few hours left before the breaking of dawn, which should give me more than enough time to sneak back into the compound. I have some unfinished business before I can leave New Orleans and make my way back to Shreveport. If the Queen believes this is the end of it, then she has another think coming. I may not be able to repay in kind through physical retribution, but I know how to reach her tender parts through other means.

* * *

Rasul sits behind the console, his eyes constantly roving the bank of monitors spread before him; a human tasked with the job would have difficulties, but a vampire's speed and eyesight is machine-like in its efficiency. He is a young vampire, at least compared to me, but very methodical and precise in every movement, so I am unsurprised by the hand bow leveled at my heart.

"Why are you here?"

I gently close the door behind me while never taking my eyes from him. He never looks at me, but I do not mistake it for inattention. Should I move towards him, he will fire the silver-tipped wooden arrow directly into me, possibly bringing final death.

"She entombed me."

"I know. She wanted you drawn and quartered, but we managed to convince her to stone you instead."

I nod in appreciation, but he does not mistake my intentions either: despite my gratitude at the guards' intervention (the only "we" he could mean), I would not hesitate to tear him apart. It is a kill or be killed world we exist in, and to survive, one must never forget. It is good my body is healed again from my self-inflicted injuries; I can't show the slightest weakness.

"Sigebert still hasn't risen." A vindictive satisfaction curls through his voice and I grin meanly. There is little love lost between the Queen's children and her guards.

"But he lives?"

"Barely. She was forced to bleed herself to heal him."

"Why?" True shock lances me. "I only had a few swallows." Nowhere near enough for a Maker to tend to her child.

Rasul's dark eyes finally switch to mine in surprise. "A few swallows? You latched on to him and nearly ripped his head from his shoulders in your feeding. Had Andre not broken your jaw with Sigebert's hammer, you would have killed him."

I slump against the wall momentarily forgetting my caution and barely notice Rasul releasing the bow. "She started it," I muttered almost to myself. "I was angered by her humiliation. I only wished to teach her a lesson about taunting me."

"I'd say she learned it well." There is humor and more than a little fear in his voice. Apparently she was not the only one to take the lesson to heart. "I doubt you broke from prison - and you will have to teach me that trick sometime - to chat about your fight. Why are you here?"

I straighten with the reminder of my mission. "I need access to Compton's computer files. I know he kept a backup on the guards' server in case his should fail."

"And you think you can just stroll in here and ask for it?"

I shrug. "No." He does not need for me to elucidate further. A blood thirsty reputation rather comes in handy it seems.

Rasul rises from his seat and I set myself in preparation. I have no grievance with the Arabic vampire, but I will destroy him if I need to in order to retrieve the information Compton left behind. He senses my readiness and holds his hands up in classic surrender position.

"I'm not going to fight you." He slowly reaches forward and opens a drawer. He rummages through it and brings out a small black flash drive. "This has what you need."

I eye his outstretched palm with undisguised suspicion. "Why would you help me?"

"Do you know what "Rasul" means in Arabic?"

"It is not known to me."

"Messenger. My name means messenger."

"So you feel affinity for the Queen's Crow?" I scoff openly.

"She holds me through blood alone."

"How was your Maker killed?"

"Ambush and betrayal." Pain carves harsh lines in his youthful face. "You? No one seems to know much about you despite your years serving the Queen."

I have no desire to share my personal story with him, but I also have to honor his revelation. "She saved me from a fate worse than final death." It is an overly-simplified but succinct summation of my bond with Sophie-Anne.

He accepts my explanation, though speculation and intrigue glint in his eyes. "The files on here will help you with whatever you're planning on doing." The hinting is clear by his emphasis, but the only plan I have is to cut my ties with the Louisiana Court, not try to overthrow its Queen.

I step closer to him and snatch the drive from his hand before sliding backwards to the door. The sun will rise soon and I need to find a place for the day.

"Lady, please." My eyes find his again. "There is a bolt-hole you can use and clothes for your travels." His gazes traces my nakedness and his fangs descend for the first time in our conversation.

"Eyes up here," I snap.

Humor and lust war for dominance. "I mean no disrespect."

Snorting, "Right."

Rasul resumes his grave persona. "You won't be able to find shelter before the sun finds you." We both feel the sluggishness of approaching sleep. "I swear upon my Maker I will not molest you nor allow harm to befall you."

He blurs to the wall behind the monitors and taps three different sections. A hinged door silently swings open and cool dry air rushes through. "Milady?" Our sensitive hearing picks up the quick tap tap of a human heart heading in our direction. "The day guard will be here soon. Choose."

Baring my fangs and seeing him flinch at their size soothes the frustration of my internal debate. "Little better than the sepulchre."

"Well, at least this one you won't have to chew your way out of."

I growl, but the human a few steps from the room makes up my mind once and for all. "If I wake up dead, I will haunt you."

"You don't wake up dead every night?"

His words are the last I hear before I am enclosed in the wall. Disbelief at his continued flirtation follows me into sleep.

* * *

**A/N: My title is derived from one of my all time favorite poems, John Donne's "Death Be Not Proud." It holds many meanings for me, and I find something new every time I read it, and given the subject, it seems a natural fit for a story about the undying.**

**Language lesson again:**

**"mo laochra beag" - my little warrior**

**"Cinnte" - yes indeed**

**"Is é an rás na bhfear ainmnithe na nGael rás Dia dhéanamh cinnte mheabhair. I gcás go léir a n-cogaí Merry agus go bhfuil siad go léir ar a n-breá brónach." - The race of men named the Gael is a race God surely made mad. For all of their wars are merry and all of their loves are sad.**


	6. Parabellum

**A/N: This is the longest chapter I've written yet. I contemplated halving it, but couldn't find a spot that would make sense until - well, read and you'll see. Warning: some rated R smuttiness ensues, but sadly no Swedes were used in the making of this scene.

* * *

**

Parabellum

It is two hours past sunset and I am still stuck in the fucking wall.

Should anyone ever ask, I know the guards' bolt-hole is six feet by six feet and made of solid stone. There is no escape except through the entry-way Rasul opened for me; and I curse myself for trusting him enough to lock me in here. I escaped Sophie-Anne's tomb only to fall for a pair of pretty fangs promising me safety.

I tense when I hear an indistinct male voice speaking just outside where I am hidden. There are three quick taps at even intervals and the wall begins to open; the air is scented with a variety of vampires, none of whom are Rasul. The odds are not good for me taking on any unseen opponents unarmed without more knowledge so I must use my wiles. I curl myself into a small ball in the corner and try to look as pathetic as possible once the room's light reaches me.

"Fuck, he wasn't lying. " The male I heard speaking earlier.

A female. "It's Rasul, when does he ever lie?"

"Dude this is awesome! She's a legend; I'd totally play her video game." Another male.

"Uh...we should wait for Rasul. He said not to disturb her." Last vampire.

The first male responds, "Look at her - she's broken after four days in the tombs."

I keep my face hidden beneath my arm but bare my fangs in displeasure; even broken I would be stronger than these four idiots. My interest in their asinine conversation fades once I establish their position in the room relative to the wall and the door. It would take seven human heartbeats for the first vampire to reach me once I leave the bolt-hole; three heartbeats for the next two to converge on me, and half a heartbeat for the last one to reach the door before me if he was smart.

"Is she even alive?" The female again.

First male, "Let me check."

I can barely stifle an incredulous snort when the fool actually crawls into the wall to reach me; is he intentionally making this easy for me to take him? He touches my bare shoulder and rolls me over.

"Holy shi-" I uncurl and kick him out with a solid blow to his chest before he can finish his curse.

I sail through the air after him and land on the downed male's stomach, my fingers cocking his head at an awkward angle. There is no need to kill him, but the threat is very real.

The remaining three vampires facing me are so young grave soil still clings to them; none of them can be above twenty-three in human or vampire years. These are Sophie-Anne's elite royal guards?

"Fuck!'

A fangy grin spreads my lips wide. "A very apropos sentiment for this situation." The female freezes when I twist the male's head a fraction more to the left. "Tut, tut. I would hate to slip." She nods in appreciation of my warning and backs off a few steps. I turn my gaze upon the male furthest away. "Put away the bow or we shall see if I can in truth fly as rumor has it"

"We ain't gonna hurt you." I stare at the male in my grip.

"Who sent you?"

"Rasul."

"Bullshit."

"Really. He sent you some clothes." The female vampire tosses a handful of cloth in my direction. I make no move to pick up the bundle.

"Who are you?"

Their names are as American as their accents. "Chester," is the boy beneath me. "Melanie" is the pretty blond female, "Ronnie" and "Brad" are the other two.

"If Rasul sent you, why did it take you two hours to release me?"

"There was an emergency meeting called and most of the Royal guards were pulled for duty." A glance flashes among the vampires. They aren't from the elite brigade then; despite my hatred of Sophie-Anne, I still feel bound to ensure her safety and these children wouldn't even make the long list of protectors.

"She knows I escaped." My voice is as flat as my expression. I had hoped for a longer reprieve, but I am, if nothing else, a survivor.

A tiny shake of Melanie's head. "Witches."

I nearly break Chester's neck in my surprise. "Witches? They dare test the Covenant?"

"I dunno," Brad replied. "Rasul supposedly sent us here to watch the monitors, but secretly told us to release you from the hole."

When humans lie, we can tell by the change in temperature and body scent, but it is near impossible to tell when a vampire does because we do not have the same biological cues. My instincts, however, tell me these children are speaking truthfully; they're too stupid to create a believable falsehood.

I spring away from Chester and land next to the clothes. Ronnie and Brad start with surprise, but Melanie helps Chester to his feet. It is interesting to see the solicitousness between the four; the others had answered my questions and obeyed my commands because they feared me killing Chester if they did not. Vampires generally do not hold concern or feelings for those outside their nests; they were all turned at the same time, or near about.

"Stand in the corner where I can see you all while I dress." I better understand the exhilaration of power when the merest flick of my chin sends them scurrying to do my bidding.

Rasul appears to know my clothing preferences: he'd sent a low scooped dark blue tank with a shelf bra and formfitting black stretch pants that fit me from hip to ankle. I have a petite build so it is often difficult for me to find pants that fit perfectly, but somehow a male I never spoke to before last night knows my measurements exactly. I might suspect he raided my closet, but I have never spent much time at Court, and no one knows where I sleep.

Apparently he is a male of many talents.

I look for something to hold back my once again hip-length black hair, but there was nothing included in the bundle. Melanie has a pretty diamond clip holding up her curls and I point at it with silent demand. She raises a hand to her head in protest, but subsides beneath my glare. A few deft twists and my hair is securely anchored at the nape of my neck.

"Now that I am properly attired, what is the next step in this great escape?"

"Rasul said for us to bring you some food and sit tight."

My brows arch in disbelief. "That's the grand plan? I wait here until the big strong handsome vampire saves little 'ole me?"

"I'm gratified you find me handsome and strong."

I whirl around to face Rasul standing at the threshold of the outer door. He preens for my amusement and I am aghast to find myself returning his flirtatious smile. How the hell did he sneak past my keen senses?

He turns his eyes to the vampires cowering in the corner. "I relieve you of your duty. Please attend the perimeters of the compound."

Even I am shocked by the speed in which the room empties. "Was it something I did?"

"You are a tad scary, you must admit." Rasul steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. The lock catches with a discernible click.

"Moi? Je suis inoffensif."

"وغير ضارة كما صحراء ثعبان."

I cock my head at him. "Your French is better than my Arabic."

Another charming smile lightens his dark features. "As harmless as a desert snake." He shortens the distance between us and I notice for the first time he does not tower over me as most vampires do. His lips are just outside tip-toe reach.

"यहां तक कि अगर एक साँप जहरीला नहीं है, तो इसे विषैला होने का नाटक करना चाहिए." I wonder if he has ever journeyed to India at any point in his second life.

Rasul studies me intently. "You have the best of me now."

A victorious smile curls my lips back and exposes just the tips of my fangs. "Even if a snake is not poisonous, it should pretend to be venomous."

"Touche." Seeing his expression of open admiration makes the evening of learning how to pronounce this one Hindi phrase completely worth it. Ah, but the Brahmin who taught me had been a lovely lovely meal. I lick my lips in remembrance of his tasty blood.

"Are you hungry? I have brought take out for you."

At my age I do not normally need to feed very often, but my body does require fuel after the dangerous activities of the past few weeks. It is better for me to hydrate before attempting the arduous task of sneaking out of a compound on high alert. Again I curse the loss of my gifts, but quickly turn away from futile thoughts and focus on more important things.

This reminds me …"After I eat you can tell me about the mysterious meeting you had with Sophie-Anne."

Rasul retreats to the doorway to bring in my meal and I take the opportunity to retrieve the flash drive from where I hid it in a small indentation in the bolt-hole.

A heart beat echoes in my ear and I turn to see a young female about two inches taller than I following Rasul. She is dressed in a sheer lacy peignoir with strategic panels shielding her breasts and mons pubis; she looks like a bride being brought to her wedding bed. The carnal innocence of her garment makes my fangs drop down with an audible snap.

"This is...?"

"...Satine, my human."

He brings a small white hand to his lips and kisses it gently before placing it in my outstretched palm. A brief expression of smugness flits across his face at my fascination with his Pet, but I am too drawn to her to care much about him for now.

She is very vampiric in her grace as she seemingly floats above the cold stone floor; she has the fragile beauty of a ballerina and I am suddenly desperately starved. Large doe eyes stare at me with complete trust as she follows me to the chair near the desk.

Satine is obviously a well-trained houri because she immediately kneels between my legs when I sit down and draws her shoulder length brown hair to the side so her neck is bared. Life rushes through the delicate blue veins beneath the surface of her exquisite flesh and I almost regret piercing such perfection, but my vampiric instincts cannot be quelled. Her gasp of surrender at my penetration excites me and my fangs slide in deeper.

I am unaware of my eyes closing until I feel the brush of eyelashes against the arch of my cheekbones. Her blood is a spicy honey that tingles through my body as I draw in her viscous deliciousness and I distantly wonder at the intoxication I feel.

Alarm tries to stiffen my muscles at the unfamiliar sensation and make me push this rare delicacy away from me, but I merely open my eyelids and lazily look toward Rasul. I cannot help but see the up thrusting evidence of his rampant masculinity pressing firmly against the front placket of his black slacks. His desire for food, fucking, and me is twined in a complicated braid of lust he cannot unravel; this please me and I beckon him closer.

I withdraw my fangs slowly before gently laving the two small holes I have left in Satine's flesh. The healing agents present in my saliva seal the wounds closed and I nuzzle the fragrant hollow between her shoulder and collar bone.

"I can smell your scent embedded in her skin." My lips press soft kisses into her shoulder even as I cradle her wilting body while idly smoothing the silky material bunched at her hip between thumb and index finger. Satine relaxes further until her back is pressed against my stomach and her head nestled between my breasts.

"She's been mine for seven years." There is possessive pride in his voice. "I have trained her to eat and drink only from my hand." He motions his pet towards him, but she remains quiescent in my iron embrace.

A cruel smile curves my lips. "Are you sure she is yours?"

I lift the gown and bare her lower body to his heated gaze. Moisture gleams along the delicate folds of her femininity which I ruthlessly plunder with the tips of my fingers. "Would a true slave come under the ministrations of another?"

I rapidly flick the small nubbin of flesh at the apex of her bare slit until her cries escalate to a keening wail and her shaking body bows upward in supplication. Rasul's fangs puncture her femoral artery just as I push her into climax with a hard nip to her sensitized neck.

I drop her limp body so I may rip Rasul from her thigh, ignoring the spurting blood from the vicious bite, and flip him over onto his back. His face is contorted with rage and thwarted lust, but changes when I drop onto his erection and grind against it.

"Want me to sheath you?"

"وأود أن الزحف عبر الصحراء المشمسة"

"English, Rasul."

"I would crawl across the sunlit desert."

The sound of the zipper is loud in the relative silence and I stare into his eyes as I touch his cool length. "You must be a proud proud man."

A roguish smirk. "There are no complaints."

I curl my fingers into claws poised to shred delicate flesh. "If you even think of betraying me to Sophie-Anne, I will rip off your cock and make you eat every piece." I dig my nails into him until I can feel a little blood dripping. "Understand?"

"I...ahh...ooh..." I am pleased he understands the gravity of the situation while also acknowledging my superior strength. Male vampires are as protective and attached to their cock and balls as their human counterparts so it is easy to strike them where it hurts.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes! Yes! I understand!"

There is some regret I cannot partake of his readiness, but business is business. I squeeze him once more in warning then release him and taste the blood mixed with the human's secretions on my fingers.

"Delightful boutique."

I hop off his prone body and retreat back to the chair. He remains on the floor a few more moments before righting his clothing and turning to Satine who is crumpled like a rag doll on the floor. He murmurs comfortingly as he lowers his quickly bitten wrist to her mouth and slowly strokes her throat as she drinks.

"Did you think I would not suss out the fact she is your Companion and not a mere Pet?"

Dark liquid eyes gaze into mine. "She is the only human I can trust. You needed food and secrecy; there was no harm intended."

"And the side benefit of being able to track me through her blood never occurred to you?"

Innocence does not sit well on his handsome face. "Nope."

I have spent too much time among humans because I have the most unvampiric urge to roll my eyes and laugh at him instead of reprove such disrespectful behavior with a balled fist.

Instead I do neither.

I turn away and scout out the compound perimeters on the security feed. It appears the emergency meeting has thinned the ranks of the guards because I can see two areas where no one is patrolling at all.

There should be no problem slipping from the main hall towards the back gardens, but there is a stretch of land where I will be exposed to the turret tower and spot light before I reach the front gate. I could go back through the way I came, but I have no desire to blur through miles of marshland before reaching some semblance of civilization.

I glance over my shoulder and see Rasul has taken Satine back to his quarters while I plan my escape. A moment later he returns and relocks the door behind him.

"Tell me about the witches."

"The burnings have started anew."

"They would not dare break the gods' thrice-damned Covenant." I spin towards Rasul. "Where?"

"So far only in Mississippi and Arkansas The Kings have sent envoys to Sophie-Anne in expectation of her aid."

_Of course_. "This will speed up the courting process. Is the Queen ready to choose?"

"She is more concerned with the safety of her own Queendom right now." He looks uncomfortable. "I have been nominated Emissary of the Court."

Laughter is bitter in my throat; he took my position. "Where are you being sent?"

"On a tour of her strongest Areas to ensure we have the support and loyalty of the Sheriffs."

If we were a panel in a cartoon, a large light bulb would illuminate over my head. Sophie-Anne's sudden need for me to return home from Nevada to spy on Eric coupled with her sending Compton to retrieve the (possible) telepath can only lead me to one conclusion: "Si vis pacem, para bellum." I whisper roughly.

More importantly, however. "What was so urgent tonight she pulled the guards from their rotas?"

"A warlock was spotted in New Orleans yestereve."

If I had a beating heart it would stop in shock. "A fucking Hand here? Which branch?"

"The vamp who saw him didn't stick around to identify his colors." Dumbass is implied by his caustic tone.

"Great time for Sophie-Anne to decide to bury me." I opt for a light tone. "So, is she planning on digging me back up?"

Rasul shakes his head solemnly. "I can smuggle you out of here and take you back to your lair before I leave for Shreveport."

"No, I have a better idea."

* * *

**A/N: For once my title isn't from a song or poem; it actually refers to the most widely used pistol cartridges in use today. The name is a German noun coined from the phrase I use in the story "Si vis pacem, para bellum."**

**Language lessons - to note, the Arabic I use is phonetic and apparently doesn't show up well here as it did in my word program. You'll have to trust the website I used translated my thoughts correctly ;)**

**The Hindi phrase Violet speaks is actually a quote attributed to Chanakya, a Hindu long considered the pioneer of the field of economics and political science. Again, as with the Arabic, this site doesn't like the copy and paste I did.**

**Moi? Je suis inoffensif - Me? I am harmless**

"**Si vis pacem, para bellum." - If you wish for peace, prepare for war (a quote often attributed to Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus)**


	7. Grown By the Wicked Moon

Grown By the Wicked Moon

I am not easily impressed by vehicles despite their uses, yet the gorgeous sheen of Rasul's Audi draws my attention again and again. Unused to denying my baser urges, I stroke my hand over the sleek silver body and imagine bending the power of the rumbling engine to my will so we fly as fast as the wind blows. I can feel the hard knob of the shifter in my fingers and the press of the pedals beneath my feet as I demand more and more until the Audi is stretched to the limits to please me.

Just as I hit the climax of speed, Rasul enters the garage carrying the items I requested. "Here are all of Satine's things you wanted." He looks quizzically at my face. "Are you alright?"

I clear my throat. "Yes, yes. Did you drain her blood into packs?"

Rasul holds up a cooler. "She will need a few days to recover the loss of blood."

"Did you move her to a safe location?"

Annoyance flits across his pleasant features. "I may not be as old as you, but I do know how to protect what is mine."

I incline my head in brief apology; few vampires would give me the items I requested without comment, yet Rasul had done so without hesitation. "I am unused to working with a partner, so my words were intemperate."

He silently acknowledges my words then hands me a red-gold costume. I quickly change then wrap myself in a soft ermine cloak he so thoughtfully provided while he puts everything else in the trunk. The silence between us is easy once we're seated in the luxurious leather bucket seats. I tense briefly when we reach the front gate, but the guard merely waves us out and we are on the road to Shreveport in less time than a human blink. The scenery flashes by for several minutes before he finally speaks.

"You know she's going to eventually discover your escape and hunt you down, so why go back to Fangtasia instead of disappearing? What can you do with the information you wanted from the guards' computer?"

"Did your Maker ever tell you that you talk too much?"

I catch a fleeting smirk. "It once drove her to drink animal blood, or so she said."

"I can believe it."

I fiddle with the knobs on the radio until I find music that is not reminiscent of a cat caught in helicopter blades. The soothing sounds of a wailing saxophone fills the interior, the plaintive notes relaxing me so I can organize my thoughts: when I first broke out of the tomb, I only had vengeance on my mind, but now with knowledge of a possible Witch incursion into the state, I must put aside revenge and focus on what's more important while still ensuring my own personal safety. If I gain sanctuary through Eric I will have no use for the flash drive unless Sophie-Anne forces my hand; but how much can I safely reveal to Rasul who got pulled into this by chance?

"Where exactly could I go? Right now she is not monitoring me because she thinks she knows where I am, but once she figures it out she can just track me through the bond. If I am to survive until her anger cools, I need leverage."

A change of subject is in order.

"Do you know much about what I did for Sophie-Anne?" As Captain of the Royal Guard, he is privy to many royal secrets though not as many as her personal guard.

The Arabic vampire studies me from the corner of his eye for a moment as if deciding whether to press me further or not. I turn to stare at him challengingly and he looks away.

"I know your last assignment sent you to Nevada to check on Felipe del Castro."

"Did she reveal why?"

Rasul shook his head. "When I spoke to her, she merely said the situation in the Nevada Court was ongoing, but I was to focus on Louisiana."

"Nevada is attempting to expand the power of his court anyway he can. He uses the Pit as a way to legally eliminate his competitors and gain backdoor access to their holdings."

"The Pit?"

"It is a Supe fighting arena he controls. Most of the gladiators are weres or shifters, but occasionally vampires in debt work it off through circuit fighting. Lately, however, it seems more and more of his fighters are vampires with mid level power who are meeting their final deaths. They are putting up their land as collateral against their lives, so naturally the House is profiting."

Rasul takes his eyes off the curving road for a moment. "How is he getting them to fight for him?"

"How else? Gladiator bouts and high stakes poker. They get lured into his casinos, rack up quite a bill, he offers to settle out of pocket..."

"...and suddenly he has new fodder for his fights." He stares at me curiously before returning his gaze to the road. "What does Sophie-Anne care about the Southwest?"

"Felipe now owns markers from several prominent Court members in Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado. Three Courts whose queens rejected his overtures of marriage at various times in the past."

"He's attempting to blackmail them?"

"No, I do not think it is that simple. Instead, I think he is trying to bankrupt them so they are forced into courtship with him. Since he seems to disregard convention, it stands to reason he would not hesitate to eliminate anyone who stands in his way, including a recalcitrant bride. Sophie-Anne is one of eight eligible Royal females left on the continent."

Rasul drums his fingers on the steering wheel, an odd tic. "But even if he does manage to blackmail one queen into marriage, he has to remain bonded for a hundred years. Why should the other seven worry about him?"

I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. The roar of the Pit and the hungry eyes of the spectators still remains firmly lodged in recent memory. "Did you know he was not the original Royal of Nevada?"

"He's been Nevada for fifty years."

"Yes, but that was after marrying into the court. It was originally a Queendom until twelve years after marriage, the reigning queen decided to meet the sun. Something about life being too difficult to live through...bladda bladda blah. Essentially horseshit; she was barely three hundred years old."

"I've never heard he was attached to another Court."

"Because he never was. No one seems to know much about him prior to convincing the queen to marry him."

"She overthrew tradition by bonding with commoner? Was she not fit for other Courts?"

"At the time, Nevada was in turmoil as there were three contenders to the throne. Queen Amalia won through trickery." Unlike human royals, we do not inherit through primogeniture; our royals prove their right to lead through combat and strength. "I suspect Felipe had much to do with her winning though I cannot prove it."

"So naturally no one said anything when she met the sun so soon after her reign began."

"Since Felipe was already Crowned King of a proven royal couple, there was no opposition when he took over the state. Since then he has attempted to expand it beyond his borders, but events turned serious about five years ago."

"What changed?"

"John Quinn happened." I keep my internal shudder from showing.

"Who?"

"A Bengal shifter who entered the Pit in attempt to clear a debt he owed to Felipe personally. Within three months he completely ruled the sands and no one would fight him willingly. Felipe offered him a new deal that he would be his enforcer for three years then be free and clear."

"But...?"

"Apparently our tiger has a thing for underage girls and is messy when he is done with them. Felipe has him by the bollocks; he will remain an enforcer until the end of his natural life or he is turned, whichever comes first." Since shifters cannot transition to graveside, he will die a vampire lackey.

"What difference does he make to Felipe's cause?"

"Quinn is six hundred pounds and ten feet from head to tail tip when shifted."

"Merde!"

"Exactly." A creature of that size combined with a cunning mind is an incredible asset. "There are rumors Colorado is seriously considering his suit. Earlier this year she was in talks with Montana-Wyoming, but he mysteriously withdrew his hand two months ago."

"How do you know so much?"

I turn my eyes to the night and speak to my reflection in the glass. "I researched Nevada to find a weakness Sophie-Anne could exploit in the off chance he made his way to Louisiana."

"Did you?"

"Not yet." My words crackle with the weight of a vow in the sudden silence as the music transitions between songs again.

Rasul slows slightly and I am surprised to see we have already reached the outskirts of Shreveport. I glance at the clock and see three hours have passed without me realizing.

"Do you know where Fangtasia is?"

"I may not leave the court often, but I'm fully apprised of all the sheriffs' holdings and main day homes even before being made Emissary."

The affronted stiffness is back in his voice again. I turn to him and look at him curiously. "Why do I offend you so easily with my questions?"

The car comes to a stop at a gas station fuel pump, but Rasul ignores me and gets out to pay. I admire his ass so nicely defined by his black linen pants as he crosses around the engine and heads in to the small twenty-four hour convenience store.

Within moments we're back on the interstate and zooming towards the interior of the city, though at a much slower pace. It is not difficult to glamour a police officer should we be pulled over , yet it is such a hassle to make sure we also void the dash cams most police cars are equipped with these days, so it is just easier to just obey speed limits. Another example of how technology has blunted our fangs.

By the time we arrive at Fangtasia, it is late enough most of the human crowds have dispersed (or been glamoured to leave) and it is mostly vampire clientele left. They will be easy to get rid of once they realize Sophie-Anne's Royal Guard is paying a house call as no one wishes to draw the queen's attention.

I can see through the windshield that Pam is not at the front. The new vampire is Asiatic in appearance so he must be Chow, one of the six loyalists in Eric's retinue. He was turned in his mid-twenties and at his physical peak as evidenced by his leanly muscled arms, trim waist, and lovely muscled thighs revealed by the white Fangtasia tank top and tight trousers he wears.

"You want a spoon to go with that?"

My eyes snap back to Rasul. "Excuse me?"

"You look like Satine when she sees a particularly tasty food item. If she really enjoys what she sees, she says "I'll eat it with a spoon.'"" We both reflexively gag at the thought of food, but I am even more discomfited by the softness in his voice. I have never desired something so much I needed to claim it mine in the vampire way, but have witnessed it time and again through the ages. I just do not understand the impulse.

"Interesting." Not really, but his comment seems to demand a response of some kind. I return to my study of Chow and realize he is staring back at us and speaking quietly into a black cuff on his left wrist. "I believe the good Sheriff is notified of our arrival."

"Are you sure this plan of yours will work?"

"Just make sure you give me the blood and I will do the rest."

Rasul reaches back and hands me the small hand cooler packed with Satine's blood. I reach into the bag at my feet and pull out a thick black collar, then reach back in to grab three blood packs, one large and two small.

I shudder with revulsion at the though of piercing plastic, however it is the least messiest and suspicious way to ingest her blood; the cold blood is as distasteful as I expected, but I need to reek of human so I suck it up (literally in this case). Once done, I place the two smaller packets against my skin and then wrap the collar around my neck. I readjust my costume, the bells jangling musically with each movement, and then rewrap myself in the cloak.

"Do not forget this -" he tosses a black silk mask in my lap. I arch a brow in his direction.

"Among my other duties, I train Court dancers and use those without fail. Eric knows this."

I don the mask then raise the hood again. "Ready now."

The leather seat squeaks when I open the door and step out barefoot. Rasul also gets out but ignores me as he walks towards the entrance. I follow at a reasonable ten steps behind him, cloaked beneath the ermine wrap despite the relatively balmy September eve.

"Hold." Chow stands firmly in Rasul's way though he does not attempt to man handle him in anyway. "We are not accepting any more customers."

"Chow, stand aside." Rasul's voice takes on a lazy drawl I have not heard before. "I have Court business with the Sheriff."

The Asian inclines his head respectfully but does not change his stance. "Pam will be here soon to escort you to Eric."

Interesting his underlings call him by name instead of by title as protocol demands.

Rasul's thin lips form a slight smile. "Ever so kind of him to send his only child to see to my welfare."

"Isn't it though?" Pam steps out from behind Chow. "Eric is ever thoughtful of Her Majesty's welfare and those of her Court." Her dark fitted leathers play up her blond beauty and underscore her dangerousness. She must be a hit with all the fangers.

"Follow me. Oh and you must tell me the delightful aroma your breather is wearing. It's simply delicious." A bright pink tongue flits across her lips in imagined satisfaction. I do not miss the implication any more than Rasul, but this is a delicate dance we do so he ignores her and takes my hand from beneath the concealment of the cloak.

"This is the queen's newest dancer and she sends her as a gift for Eric's evening entertainment."

"Hmn, the last gift she sent was a silver-laced bloodwine." Her bright blue eyes travel over my concealed body. "Should I check her for poisons too?"

Rasul's throaty chuckle just oozes sex and I hear Chow's fangs snap down in response. "Aren't the best gifts the most dangerous?"

"I think I may like you. Just don't piss off my maker so I don't get to know you better."

With a wave of scarlet red fingernails, Pam motions us to follow her through the club towards the back where Eric's office is presumably located. As we pass by an especially noisy area I make sure to direct a breathy comment to Rasul: "I would watch yourself with that one because she normally does not take males to her bed. She may actually eat you."

He chuckles. "Not if she gets you first."

I am unable to respond in kind because we reach Eric's door whereupon Pam knocks and is granted entrance. I am disappointed to see it is a mundane human styled room filled with shelved stock items along one wall, a large couch, two chairs, and a massive wood desk. The mingled smell of blood and sex saturates the air so I know he rarely dines at home; apparently even vampires are susceptible to typical work-alcoholic behavior.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure, Captain?" Eric lounges casually in his chair, long tracksuited legs propped up on his desk. Pam proceeds us into the room and stands to his left with her arms crossed.

Rasul slinks into the office with a loose-limbed grace I find fascinating. He has suddenly acquired the litheness of a dancer and it makes me wonder at this new persona. Perhaps there is a good reason Sophie-Anne chose him to replace me. I focus on my partner and ignore when Chow closes the door behind me and leans against it.

I notice Rasul cants his head slightly to the left and down in accordance to protocol and Eric responds in kind, though his head bow is shallower and to the right. Eric is older but holds a lower Court status, while Rasul is younger with higher Court status but no land. Since land trumps all, Eric is more powerful by default due to his Area holding. I have never seen such a complex silent greeting between two male vampires go so smoothly without the usual macho posturing bullshit; is there a glimmer of respect between them?

"I won't bore you with the recitation of my honors and titles nor will I expect the same from you. Suffice to say, I am here in official capacity with the queen's full knowledge."

Eric's answering grin is fang-free and surprisingly attractive. He responds to Rasul, but I find myself distracted by the way the light gleams on his long blond hair and how the faintest scent of fruit undercuts the feed and fuck smell. Does he use a scented soap?

My fangs creep past the barrier of my lips as my eyes linger on the swell of flexing muscle in his arms bared by a red Fangtasia tank top (it seems the male work uniform here) before skipping lower to his lap. Unfortunately I am unable to tell if rumors of him are true because my newest borrowed name pulls me from my musings and I quickly retract my teeth.

"...Florica." The name rolls from Rasul's tongue with a hint of his ancestry, so it sounds like "Flooor-ee-ka."

"Why is she hooded and jessed like a falcon?"

Despite my distraction from the conversation, I had not forgotten the plan and had purposely made small movements so the bells at my ankles would jingle.

Rasul snaps his fingers and I immediately kneel at his side. "She is still learning her place in our world. It is easier to accomplish this if she relies on hearing and smell without the full use of sight." His long thin fingers slip beneath the cloak and allows the hood to fall away to show them the half-mask that reveals my eyes and the lower part of my face.

Eric's ice blue eyes tangle with mine and electricity seems to arch through my body in the most disturbing way. "I wish to see her fully."

Rasul tenses slightly, though I am the only one close enough to tell. He does not believe when I tell him no one will recognize me; for the first time in a while I am au naturale without any artifices of my usual disguises other than the blood scent and clothing worn earlier by Satine. Both Eric and Pam only briefly saw me in my Violet persona and how could they possibly connect her to this incarnation?

The ties for the mask are beneath the heavy knot at my nape, so I shiver theatrically when he brushes against the sensitive skin while undoing the knots. I lower my gaze to the floor once the mask is stripped, baring me to the other vampires.

"Exquisite." Why am I disappointed it is Pam who says this and not Eric?

Rasul chuckles indulgently. "But of course. Nothing but the best for Sophie-Anne."

"This human is for her?" Eric's accent tinges his words in the most delicious manner and my quiver of desire is translated into a single bell stroke.

"Oui." My chin is lifted with a strong hand as he rotates my head left then right as if judging the quality of slightly bruised produce . "She was merely a chorus dancer until I took her for the queen. I will make her the Court Flower."

Eric's snort is startlingly human. "Like Satine was supposed to be?"

"Ah, but the cock wants what the fangs want. Is it so wrong to want to add a precious treasure to my private collection?" My eyes drift up to Rasul's in contemplation. Obviously quite a story there.

"And the collar?"

"Incentive."

"Hers or yours?"

Rasul's heavy lidded gaze sparks as he responds, "Does it matter?"

"How well does she dance?" Pam interjects as she idly twirls a strand of hair like the most vapid of blonds, but I do not underestimate her. Pretty things often distract the unwary so they are not prepared for the fatal strike.

"Allow her to demonstrate on your stage?" Rasul motions towards the main room of the club with a laconic wave of his hand. My eyes return to his face with the accuracy of a homing beacon. I have observed enough human pets and companions to know their instinctive response in a room full of strange vampires is to seek out the one to whom they belong.

"And while she dances you can tell me the real reason you came to Shreveport now that we've established you are you and I am me." The steel in his tone brings my attention back to Eric and I can tell he was waiting for me to look at him again. It is not hard to fake the admiration or lust I allow to fill my expression when he over exaggerates the stretching of muscle and bone of his six-foot-four body. "Pam please kindly tell our rabble to leave."

"Gladly," she agrees before stalking out on her spiked kitten heels. A moment later I can hear her say, "By order of the Sheriff: "Get the fuck out."" The rush of sound to the door is telling: Eric is definitely feared despite the somewhat lax approach his staff takes to protocol.

"Something amuses you?" Eric stands before me, his crotch at eye level. I stare at the source of my earlier distraction before leisurely sliding upward to his face.

"Not amuse, my lord Sheriff, merely astonish." Rasul's hand comes down on my head in warning at my tone. A true companion or pet would never be so bold, but I am listening to my instincts which whisper he would never be interested in a meek or mild woman.

Eric reaches down and lifts me to my feet with easy strength. The difference in height is similar to that between Sigebert and I, but with Eric I am a little too overwhelmed by his physical presence to look for weaknesses. This fascination needs to stop fast if I am to keep my wits about me: he is Sheriff by choice not royal designation. Rasul's presence at my back steadies me strangely enough and I am able to find my human balance again.

That balance is nearly destroyed again by the soothing feeling of long cool fingers stroking my inner wrist. I shake it off and fight the urge to break away because he will soon notice I do not have a heart beat; instead I turn my wrist so my palm lies against one of his palms and shake it slightly in the quintessential American way.

"I am Florica." Violet, Amalthea, Luciana, Charlotte...really anyone I imagine I can be.

A small smile flirts with his sensuous lips. "I am Eric Northman, Sheriff of Area Five."

"Should I curtsy?"

"A bow would be better. It places you on level with the part that most needs respect."

A breathy giggle escapes me. "From the words whispered at Court, I won't have to bow far."

Eyes wide, Eric throws his head backward with laughter. "Beautiful and quick-witted. If you can dance you're the whole package." A tremor of lust tingles my fangs as I eye his vulnerable throat; even so, I am gladdened to know my disguise is effective enough he bares a pulse point to me unwittingly.

I lean into him as I slip my hand from his loose grasp. "Would it be shameful to say I would like to see your whole package?"

"Florica!" Rasul snaps, his voice a chain dragging me back. I immediately hunch away from Eric and attend at my partner's side. "My lord, I..." my words trail off when he slaps me hard across the face. I kneel in supplication and allow the hood to drape me again. "I humbly beg your pardon, my lord." And I will return that slap seven fold, I silently seethe.

Eric remains silent, but I am not offended. A vampire can treat his pet or companion in anyway he sees fit and it would be an insult for anyone to interfere in said handling, even if technically I belong to the queen instead of Rasul. He holds the leash in her stead.

"Come, Sheriff. Let my very obedient student entertain you while we talk business." I catch the signal in his words and walk with my head bowed until we reach the main room.  
The only people remaining are the human servants, but they are scattered with a simple "out," by Eric.

Rasul reaches into the breast pocket of his black linen jacket and pulls out a CD. "If you would instruct your child to put this music in for Florica."

I wait for the opening sultry notes before casting off my cloak exposing my outfit consisting of a sheer red top, strategically covered with dangling gold coins, wrapped around my breasts with the ends trailing down my bare back to the low hip-slung red and gold patterned skirt whose length flaps around mid-thigh. A thin gold chain circles my bared stomach and connects to the pierced ring in my navel.

The sound of clicking fangs tells me I have captured their attention so I swivel my hips in several figure eights as the bells at my anklets jingle in beat to the thrumming drums, my arms slowly winding above my head in classic snake patterns.

A spotlight already highlights Eric's throne in the middle of the stage so I decide to incorporate it. The Raqs baladi I dance is one to an ancient fertility goddess, beseeching her for a lover who will fulfill my purpose as a woman and mother. My body is barren of touch and life, my breasts in want of suck and meaning, my lower body neglected and denied.

The music calls to me, telling me to shimmy my chest and rotate my hips to the quickening pace of the Dumbek; in one rotation I twirl around as the clip holding my hair flies off releasing my long locks. I twine my arms in the air above my head again, though this time as if they are bound, and approximate spasms which end in minute folding of my stomach muscles in a rippling pattern.

Each rotation and shimmy brings me closer and closer to achievement of my wishes until the mere brush of cloth against my body hurts, the last notes of the dance thrusting me onto the throne with my legs spread wide and my hair draping me.

I approximate breathlessness beneath the cover of black strands while trying to covertly eavesdrop on the conversation between Eric and Rasul.

"...opening a Fangtasia in New Orleans."

"Sophie-Anne wants me to franchise?"

"She thinks there isn't enough of a vampire business model. We may rule the city, but half-bloods own the streets."

"Why me?" Eric's suspicion is understandable. His relationship with the queen is fractious because he refuses to submit fully to her rule, so she often tries to undermine him in subtle ways because she cannot be sure she could overwhelm him in hand to hand combat.

"You own the most successful Fanger bar in three states. Why wouldn't she want a piece of that action regardless of the past?"

"And this has nothing to do with the fact a telepath is in my Area, therefore under my control? Sophie-Anne would never dream of trying to collect such a treasure without informing her most loyal Sheriff."

And Eric is, despite the queen's machinations. He knows a strong Queendom is what keeps the wolves (so to speak) from our door. Many other Courts are in constant turmoil, but Louisiana has experienced unprecedented peace for nearly the entirety of Sophie-Anne's reign, much credit owing to the force of her standing army. As a result, she is among the most powerful monarchs in the Americas.

Suddenly I am tired. Just tired of all the ploys and games my queen uses to control her people. If Eric were among those who plotted against her, word would have leaked by now. The supernatural world is no better than the human one when it comes to gossip or innuendo, and there has never been a breath of betrayal attached to his name.

Three weeks of reconnaissance combined with Compton's exhaustive compilation on Eric's background leads me to believe the Sheriff is quite possibly the greatest strength in the whole of Sophie-Anne's Queendom. If anyone can protect me against her retaliation it would be him.

For the right price of course.

"Sheriff, you know as I do there are reasons upon reasons for everything Sophie-Anne does, but I don't believe the telepath is part of this particular deal."

I mentally wince at the telling "the" in his sentence. It reveals Rasul's prior knowledge of Sookie's talents, thereby confirming Eric's theory about Compton's illegal presence and the queen's involvement.

Eric's laughter is chilling. I suddenly fear for Rasul's safety so I make my way to his side as unobtrusively as possible. He has taken many risks for me in the short amount of time we have known one another and it would besmirch my honor to let him fall to Viking temper.

"So you do not deny Sophie-Anne's interest in a telepath in the Area?" The lethal tone does not bode well.

Rasul straightens the cuffs of his jacket the same way a human might draw a deep breath.  
"The queen is secretive, manipulative, and rash as you well aware. I cannot answer your question because I do not know the answer." His tension shows in the dropping of his contractions. "I was only tasked with offering you a business proposal."

Silence falls between the two males as tension mounts. Rasul attempts to play it off by crossing his legs unconcernedly, but I can feel the preparedness in his muscles. Eric has the reputation for savagery, as evidenced by him slaying three Court members Sophie-Anne sent to spy on him a few years back. He was able to escape punishment by claiming they never identified themselves to him so he was within his rights to defend his Area as he saw fit. She stupidly tried again by using humans, but they too were never seen again.

This situation is slightly different since Rasul announced himself, but I begin to wonder if perhaps Sophie-Anne sent him here knowing full well he could face final death if he enraged Eric. The only witnesses are his retinue and ostensibly the human Rasul brought, so a simple matter of claiming no one ever arrived would absolve him of any wrong-doing; a deep hole and the morning sun would take care of any evidence to the contrary.

What the hell did Rasul do to piss off the queen?

"Master," I put my hand on Rasul's arm, "Perhaps it is time to lay your cards on the table. It is the only way." I hope he understands my message. He cannot be under any illusions to his purpose here and possible fate so this may be the only way to save himself.

"Florica go wait in the car."

Pam's crystal cold voice interjects. "She should stay. I haven't shown her all the delights of Fangtasia." Her fangs gleam wickedly in the dim light. Rasul growls low in his throat at her second implied threat and rises from the table with perilous intent.

I drop to a near crouch and curse the absence of my blades; how ironic I have come full circle and once again stand in this bar wishing for my weapons. They are at the Shreveport apartment leased in Violet's name, but might as well be on the moon for the good they do me now. Pam and Chow could be easily dispatched, but I am unsure about Eric.

I have never seen him fight yet gory tales of his past blood-soaked rampages abound in several states' Courts. The weapon aficionado in me knows the well-cared for broadsword hanging on the wall behind the bar is more than a prop.

"Enough!" Eric's baleful voice halts the detonation of action as surely as snipping the blue wire on a ticking time bomb. "Pamela take Chow to the office and stay there while Rasul and I speak frankly." His gaze cuts to my hunkered position. "The loyalty you command in your humans is quite astonishing, Captain. First Satine, now this one. "

I straighten self-consciously. "He is a worthy male."

"Hon intriger mig."

I pretend confusion at his observation to his child, but inwardly fight welling panic as I have absolutely no desire to intrigue the Sheriff of Area Five. My life is complicated enough without that particular entanglement.

"Sluta tänka med din huggtänder"

"Gör som jag säger eller jag bränner dina skor."

"Var försiktig. Det är något olika om henne."

"That will be all Pam."

I ignore the blond vampire's murderous look and concentrate on Rasul instead. "Master, do you wish me to leave?"

"Do you think you could stop me from harming him?"

My human identity drops for a moment as I peruse Eric's seated form. "I would certainly try." A fanged smile and a considering look is his only response.

"Florica, go!" Rasul presses the car keys into my hand with slightly trembling fingers. He turns his head so only I see his near panic; I waver for a moment, but at the crushing squeeze of his fingers, I acquiesce to his will. Hopefully he understands I will be just outside in case he needs someone to watch his back.

I draw back my right leg as I bend from the waist; it is a bow normally reserved for Royals or high level Court members, but it comes from my grudging respect for Rasul's protective actions. "As you wish."

* * *

**A/N: I was listening to the True Blood sound track and heard the song "Bones," and I really liked the line: "It's a long and hard row to hoe/When seeds that you sow/Grow by the wicked moon/Be sure your sins will find you out/The past will hunt you down/And return to tell on you." I thought it fitting for the information revealed in this chapter.**

**Language translation - Swedish**

**Sluta tänka med din huggtänder" - Stop thinking with your fangs**

**Gör som jag säger eller jag bränner dina skor." - Do as I say or I am burning your shoes**

"**Var försiktig. Det är något olika om henne." - Be careful. There is something different about her.**


	8. Bringing Out the Dark

**A/N: I didn't realize until I was casting around for a title that part of the dream Violet has is loosely based on _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_; of course my version ends a bit differently than Keats' but then I'm not a Romantic poet. I'm sure my Literature professors would be very proud to see how I'm using my degree. *evil grin*

* * *

**

Bringing Out the Dark

"_Ma'am, you cannot be here." The rough weary burr of the man's voice was honey thick with a southern accent, his brow furrowed in concern at her presence near the tent._

"_I search for someone."_

"_It's not right for a decent lady to be here, ma'am, even if you're looking for your husband."_

_A smile brushed her lips at his subtle inquiry. The darkness beyond the flickering lamps shielded her amusement, so when he shifted to see her face in the light, she had a properly solemn expression._

"_I am unwedded."_

_He nodded, the deep russet color of his hair sparking in the shadowed light. "Ma'am, I will have to escort you from here. These men are dying and need their rest."_

_At this all amusement drained and resolve straightened her shoulders. "I cannot allow you to, Captain. I know the risks to my reputation, but I am needed."_

_He was thin and ragged, face carved older than the actual years he had lived, but the manners instilled by his mother did not desert him in the face of her seeming desperation. It was beyond strange to see a lady –and she was a lady from her freshly starched dress to the dull brown of her heels – in a battlefield hospital, but since the Northern Aggression had started, life had lost all normality and he lived by the rule of necessity._

"_I will follow you, to ensure your safety then."_

_A small cold hand touched his whiskered cheek, the softness and intense femininity shocking him beyond reproach at the untoward action. He'd almost forgotten how a woman smelled; much less felt and he cradled her against his face in a heartbreaking moment of tenderness he didn't know he was still capable of. The captain knew this beyond the ken of decency, but she reminded him of the reasons he sent untried youths to their deaths, why he had to write brief meaningless platitudes to the scores of women left behind to await their men folks' improbable returns._

_The young lady drew a breath in startled wonder as she stared up at him. "It is you I came to find."_

"_Me? How? We have never met; I would have remembered." A touch of the gallant he was in his naïve and unknowing days returned to him, even as he ached to press a kiss into the small palm so close to his mouth._

_A wondering smile touched her lips, a pale pink rose in the dim light. "I go where I am needed. You need me, good Captain." She stepped backwards, away from the campfire and tent lamps, her hands dropping to his arms and drawing him willingly with her. He understood then she was no lady, but a camp follower._

"_You are beautifully disguised. I thought you a lady."_

_Small ripples of laughter ringed him as she led him deeper into the darkened forest. "I am many things, but never that. You called to me." He squinted thoughtfully, his steps hesitant as his eyes could not pierce the black._

"_How could I have called to you?"_

"_Did you not slash your breast and snarl at the heavens when part of your regiment fell today? Did you not beg for a sense of order? Reasoning behind the madness that drives this war? Do you not search for your God in the bloody corpses thickening underfoot?"_

_Her words were lashes against his wounded sensibilities and he lost the thread of civility her previous identity had afforded him; he grasped her hands in his larger ones and pulled her into the rigid lines of his body. "Do not speak of what you cannot know, woman."_

_The moon was low in the sky, so he was forced to rely on senses other than sight, and her scent rose between them, a salty musk he tasted in the back of his throat. Throwing all caution to the wind and ignoring the shrieks of imprecations from his wife's living memory, he pressed his lips to hers, silently begging for a moment of surcease from the agonizing present._

_God must have finally heard his reedy prayer because her mouth opened beneath his and he gratefully drank deeply of her dark wine, scarcely mindful of the small hands un-tucking and un-pressing his tattered uniform until he fell hard, thick, and long into her grasp. He gasped in painful awareness, shocked into complete stillness._

"_Shh, my Captain, be at ease."_

"_How can I when you touch me so?" His chuckle was rusty and ill-used, but there nonetheless._

"_Then I suppose you willnt be eased if I do this either."_

_Wonderful wet heat engulfed his glans and his hand fluttered to the crown of her head, petting and stroking in encouragement, allowing her full movement. He feared this was merely a dream and he would awaken with his spend dampening his britches, so he allowed his dream goddess her way with him, resolutely putting away all thoughts of his wife to the back of his mind. _

_This moment had nothing to do with marriage, or civilization, but the sharp desire to prove he still lived, his blood still pumped in his veins, though in this moment it had all drained directly south to deliciously pool in the extremely talented mouth of his mystery woman._

"_You must cease, I am…I am…it…"_

_Instead of halting, she increased the haste of her bobbing head and the depths of her suckling until he felt as if she attempted to breach his soul with her talents. A moment later a sharp penetrating pain creased his most tender skin, but he was too far gone in his impending completion so it merely became a part of the rousing pleasure racing from his ballocks. _

_The explosive end to her ministrations left him light-headed and weak, legs wobbling from the strength of his orgasm, but he attempted to maintain an upright position because she hadn't finished swallowing his seed; an act he had never seen even the most experienced whores do. Eventually it drifted from ticklish to an almost painful burn, and he attempted to detach her from him, but his fingers scraped by teeth that seemed much longer than was right and he drew back startled._

"_Grrr," she growled warningly through the liquid she delicately sipped until his body felt numb, and blackness, deeper than the night surrounding them, fluttered at the edges of his consciousness. Battle-hardened and inured to the threat of death, he mentally shrugged and was glad he had fallen to pleasure instead of agony like so many others had this terrible day.

* * *

_

For the third time in as many days, I awaken with no knowledge of my whereabouts or reasons for being there. This time, unlike others, I was not entombed in a coffin or walled vault, but chained down on a four-poster bed covered with silken sheets. I shift my arms and legs experimentally, but there is no slack or draw for me to break free, even at my enhanced strength.

Whoever strapped me down did so with supernatural abilities in mind, though thankfully not vampiric as steel encircles my limbs instead of silver. The back of my head aches as if I was hit with something, which might account for how I ended up in this charming place. There is some shame in being taken so easily, but for now I shall concentrate on getting out alive before beating myself up for dropping my guard.

"You wake now, now."

I frown in confusion for I had not realized there was someone else in the room with me; contrary to popular opinion, even vampires cannot see in total darkness. We need some ambient light to see, which this room does not have, but my superior sense of smell or hearing should have alerted me to another's presence; the only scent permeating the room is Eric's, which tells me at least who captured me, if not who is with me.

Vaguely scaled fingers touch my inner elbow and I clamp down on the instinctive urge to bare my fangs in threat. I do not have full knowledge of my situation and it would not do to give away any secrets prematurely.

"Himself wants to know what you are. Blood tells all, tells all. Shield eyes or burn."

Since I am trussed like an animal my only recourse is to close my eyes, and a moment later I am grateful for heeding this being's advice as a nearly blinding light source suddenly poofs into existence near my face. I can almost see after images of the room like snapshots through the thin fragile skin of my eyelids.

"Pretty, pretty."

A dry rough tongue flicks against my cheek, scraping away a layer of skin so blood flows in sluggish drips.

"Blood sings, blood rings, blood will tell me everything."

I feel the shiver of strange magic crawl over me and enter the split skin, an inhuman harmony echoing in my ears as my interlocutor's speech devolves into a harsh chant of alien syllables. Sudden comprehension settles into my mind and I know what he is: an Astarothian demon, a hybrid caster sect who can determine truth through casting of blood.

How the fuck did the Sheriff of Area Five bend one to his will?

"Lies, lies. So many lies. Himself won't like."

The tongue swipes across my face again, and I cannot contain the whimpers of pain as more layers of flesh peel back beneath his acidic saliva. I can feel his fiery breath whisper across the ruined tissue and realize how close he is; my fingers curl into claws as I unobtrusively seek to release myself, but I cannot slash through the thick metal nor break them through brute upper body strength.

Drawing a shallow breath, so not to alert the demon to my intentions, I gird myself before violently twisting both arms in impossible rotations. The unforgiving metal does not bend, but the small bones at the base of my hands snap and with a sharp tug, my hands are free, if sans both thumbs. The grinding pain of ripping muscle is enough to make me want to howl in agony, but I am free.

Full demons of the two and four foot variety have heavy scales which are difficult to penetrate with anything less than a magicked weapon (I briefly mourn the absence of my blades), but hybrids trade physical invulnerability for mental acuity. As a trained assassin I am well-versed in different ways to disable or kill many species, but theory is not as comforting as practical knowledge and Astarothians are an especially nasty breed because of their acid.

Of course, they are also truth-seekers above all else and their magic is not predisposed towards offense. If I can neutralize his ability to speak, his magic is crippled; there is some chance he could be one of the few with martial training, but I can only act upon probability and ignore possibility otherwise I will be frozen with indecision.

I allow screams to surface in order to distract him from realizing I have freed myself, and feel his tongue stroking my vulnerable throat and then lower still to my breasts. It might seem strange I only realize now I am nude, but I shall forgive myself the lapse in concentration once I am away from this cursed room.

There is only one chance of success and if I should fail, then I will find myself as demon bait unless someone steps in before he consumes me in an effort to determine my origins. Sending a prayer to any deity listening, I shove my bleeding hands into the gaping maw near my belly, fingers scrabbling to find purchase in his lower jaw. Squishy balls beneath the tongue burn my fingertips and I know I have found the acid sacs.

Ineffectual blows rain down on my head and shoulders, but I ignore his flailing as I seek the hinged joints on either side of his mouth; I silently curse my lack of thumbs, but manage to grasp the points and jerk in opposite directions. A sickening pop tells me I have dislocated his jaw, but I cannot be sure this will keep him from casting, so I rip his tongue out from the root and throw it over my shoulder to the other side of the bed.

He stumbles away from me, taking the light, and I am finally able to open my eyes. I reach down to my ankles and break open the manacles before scanning the room for a weapon or even my clothes, but other than the bed, the room is barren. The door leading out is to my right and I curse in several languages when I see the expanse of smooth wood. I had hoped to make a quiet exit so no one would find out about my escape until I was gone from here.

The plans of mice and vamps.

I hop from the bed and blur to the door, rapping at different spots to make sure it is truly wooden and not disguised metal. Satisfied it will buckle beneath my weight; I align my shoulder and take a running leap into it, punching through to the other side. I immediately flatten to the floor in case any other casters or snipers guard the door.

My nose and ears inform me there is no one here, though that hadn't helped me with the demon, so I cautiously crawl forward until I reach the end of the hallway where I am presented with a split path. I try to orient myself and think about how most houses are built, but the itchiness of regeneration in my hands interferes, so I turn left. My choice doesn't lead me to a living room but another empty bedroom. This is better perhaps because this one has a window and I can see weak streaks of moonlight tracking across the floor.

I crouch low on the lawn even as I impatiently brush glass shards from my body. The house sits far back from a road or any neighbors and is almost completely surrounded by woods. There is a slight breeze carrying faint smells of stagnant water, freshly turned soil, and …fuck.

"Ah, definitely more than human."

I do a double-take because she is dressed in what appears to be khaki pedal pushers, a petal pink blouse, and pearls with white Mary-Janes strapped to her feet. Quite different than her normal Fangtasia get up, that is certain.

"I'm a Court dancer," I humbly respond, careful to keep my head down and my eyes from her face, appearing subservient, yet not cowed.

As always, the etiquette of vampiric hierarchy is a subtle and delicate dance: I am beneath her as a human, or close enough to, yet in my actual persona, she would not outrank me because she holds power only through her Maker. Once, and if, she became a Maker herself, and held her own territory, it would shift the balance again.

Thankfully I have an eidetic memory or I would be swallowed by the endless and stupid rules governing us. Is it any wonder I sometimes long for the chaotic and warring days of old?

"Don't lie Florica." Long white fangs glint in the moonlight from the nearly full moon overhead. "You escaped an Astarothian demon hybrid with little more than a scratch on your body." She taps a long blood-red nail against lightly glossed lips. "I'd say that makes you a candidate for the Sup side."

I shrug nonchalantly, my mind rapidly assessing the situation: one, she knew my true identity; two, she was unaware of my Court affiliation, but knew I was a vampire; or three, she only suspected I was a supernatural but not what race. Which approach would work best with her?

"It was pure luck!"

"Bullshit," the harsh word seemingly at odds with her Stepford Wife appearance. "If you were simply a Courtesan, why would you wear another's blood beneath your collar?" She threw the bag of Satine's blood at my feet, and even cold and encased in plastic, I could scent the spicy honey. It takes considerable control to keep my fangs tucked in my gums instead of bursting forth in search of the healing elixir.

My thumbs are regenerating, but slowly and blood would hasten the process sufficiently; however, I do not wish to draw her attention to my infirmity. It would certainly undercut any explanations or denials about my vampiric nature if she could see proof positive otherwise.

"Rasul didn't want Eric to drink me dry..." my words are cut off by a powerful slap which rocks my head back; I allow the momentum to tumble me to the ground.

I took a calculated risk calling the Sheriff by his first name, which was a profound breach of etiquette since I was not of his station or even worthy of notice. Unless he himself gave me leave to call him by his first name, I am to always address him by his title. I did it for two reasons: to judge the extent of Pam's speed and to see how she would strike me. It is not a killing blow, or even at full strength, so she must want me for something.

"You overreach, you fucking gutterslut. I will rend your flesh from your bones if you disrespect my Maker again."

"Pam!" the harsh guttural bark clues me into what my senses have been whispering: we are not alone.

Chow, the tattooed Asian vampire, detaches from the shadows and reaches out for the icy blonde. Hairs on the back of my neck rise in primal warning when a cold breeze seems to swirl around him; vampires cannot wield or control elemental magic so it is beyond strange Air comes to his beckoning.

Yet even as I think these unsettling thoughts, his tattoos seem to writhe on his skin as if they long to desert his flesh for three dimensional reality. I had taken his inkings for Yakuza markings, but this stirring reveals something more, indicating I had not done as thorough research on Eric's minions as I first assumed. You know what they say about assuming: you are dead or fucked, or both, and not in a nice way.

Pam seems ignorant of Chow's moving marks and allows him to touch her shoulder. I am already moving, my body aware of the danger before my mind finishes cataloging the problem, and can only thank Providence that the blond vampire is not wearing the skin baring costume from earlier.

"Run!" I scream even as I barrel into faux-Chow, my thumbless hands scrabbling to yank his arms down so he cannot touch either of us.

Startled blue eyes wash over me and then the struggling Asian beneath me. "What the fuck...?"

Chow, or whoever the Hand really is, bares his fangless teeth at me, and attempts to buck me off with a violent and lithe twist of his body. If I were not a vampire - or hell even a were - it probably would have worked and he would touch his deadly hands to me, shoving life magic into my body and turning me into graveside ash.

Fortunately he does not realize my true nature and tries to use physical prowess instead of magical means; there is no contest in strength between us and I have him quickly subdued, gagging him with a ripped section of the borrowed shirt he wears and pinning his hands behind his back. I wonder where the real Asian vampire is, but there is no time to speculate for now.

"Human, huh?"

I glare at Pam over my shoulder and surrender any hopes of this persona lasting. "Go get your Sire and inform him we have captured a Hand."

She crouches beside me, nose flared as she draws in deep droughts of air. "I don't smell magic, just aged flesh. How can he not reek of his spells?"

I glance thoughtfully at the black markings across the bared arms beneath me and speak my thoughts aloud, "I thought his tattoos were moving earlier, which means they are shaper spells. A means for him to change shape even though he is a warlock."

A small stiletto pierces my neck as Pam calmly asks, "How do I know you're not working with him. Rasul certainly couldn't shed any light on who you really were."

I grit my teeth as I hold back a growl. "He better be alive and with all pieces when we get back."

"You think to bargain, wench?"

"I can easily let this Hand go and allow you to deal with it. Or we can be reasonable vampires and negotiate."

"Vampire now are we?"

"Does it matter?"

"It will to Eric, and if he decides to keep Rasul alive."

"Terribly impolitic of him to destroy a servant of Sophie-Anne's for merely having the bad luck of being the messenger. I thought killing the messenger was a tradition that died out a while ago."

"You're not scared of my knife are you?

"Not particularly, especially when I have a knife near your femoral artery."

Pam looks down in shock, her fingers instinctively loosening around the knife handle. No longer concerned she would slice my throat open (_it would not be mortal but damn inconvenient to recover from, especially in these perilous times_), I slam the back of my head into her face, hearing the satisfying crunch of broken bone as I hit the bridge of her nose.

"You fucking lying bitch!"

"What? You were threatening to cut my throat. Was I supposed to just take it?" I ignore the incredulous look the Hand flashed at me as I flick Pam from my shoulder with a practiced shrug. "Sorry sweetheart, I wasn't born that way."

Pam whimpers in pain a moment longer, than snaps her nose back into join with an audible sound that seems to sicken our prisoner. I look over at her.

"Feel better?"

"I'll feel better when I sink my MJ heels in your ass."

"Temper, temper. Look as fun as this foreplay is, I really need you to alert Eric to the breach in his security. We don't know how long the warlock was disguised as Chow, and right now his coven could be trapping your Maker."

Pam's vengeance is put aside at once as averting potential danger to her Sire is paramount. "When this is all said and done, we will have an accounting between you and I." She speaks the opening ritual words to a Blood Duel, and I nod once to let her know I agree.

Within seconds she springs from her position on the ground and vanishes into the night. I shift my position on the warlock's stomach and look at him speculatively as I wonder what he looks like without the shaper's spells clouding his true form.

"I know you want to reveal yourself to me," I croon as my fangs drop. "And you will tell the Sheriff everything he wants to know, or I swear to you I will eat you."

There is no verbal translation needed for the derision filling his eyes. Normally vampires do not drink witches, especially from the inner circle of a coven, because of their elemental magic; it burns like the sun, as life is anathema to death, but I was captured by a coven and tortured and brought to the brink of true death innumerable times, so the pain has no affect or hold any fear for me.

"I am the Abomination."


	9. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Something Wicked This Way Comes

"_I am the Abomination."_

His panic is sweet in the small space between us, and I unconsciously drop my head to his neck where the sweat lingers in the blackened hollows and lines of his flesh. The burn of magic against my tongue is bitter and familiar, bringing with it dark memories of rituals and degradation beyond even my immortal imagination.

"Did you know, I was often strapped down upon a cross of silver while unspeakable atrocities were visited upon my body with less feeling than a scientist for a rat? At least the scientist believes the rat will somehow prove a theory, while my experimentation was merely for the enjoyment of your perversions."

He shook his head frantically, tears leaking from the sides of his eyes, though I am unsure if in denial of my comment or knowledge of my torture. I was the coven's prisoner for nigh on seventy years, long enough to be paraded in different territories and before a fuck-all of witches. I am presently unable to determine his exact age - witches and warlocks can live upwards of three hundred years - so he may or may not have been present at my humiliations, yet either way I have no problem exacting revenge upon his flesh.

My fangs grows to hunting length and I pierce the skin so close to my mouth; the tang of magic swirls through his blood, ash thick in my throat, and I nearly gag with revulsion. I ignore my instinctive response and press on, demanding his mind to open to me so I can rifle through his memories and find the answers to whatever questions Eric might pose.

He thrashes beneath me, his screams muffled by the gag, and my fangs rip out of his neck and slide across slick skin.

"Shhh, shhh, easy easy," I caress his head, seeing a handful of blond hairs glowing among the dark strands. A shaper's focus can hold only as long as the subject is able to keep the magic firmly implanted; his terror of me, and the unexpected piercing of virgin flesh, is undoing the base structure of the spell.

He gradually settles against me, his eyes wide upon mine as my glamour finally catches his vulnerable mind. I pet him for long moments, timing each stroke to the slowing heartbeat loud in my ears until he is completely enthralled by me. Gently I bring him back to my fangs and slide back into my initial entry points; the sludge he calls blood fills my mouth again and I draw deeply, so deeply, I can feel his heart pulsating within me.

Images explode in my mind's eye: a young tow-headed blond boy running around naked with a laughing woman following behind while another blond boy watching enviously through a slit in the gate, his small fist clenching into a fist. A flash, and then the same envious boy is older, standing over the burning bodies of the mother and son with dull blue flame filling his hand. He cannot be older than twelve, a Hand come early into his power through sacrificing his family. _Fucking witches._

I push through his earliest memories, searching for more recent ones, trying to find when he infiltrated Eric's retinue; it had to be within the past year or so, because assuming someone's identity, even with magic, takes time. Unfortunately the shaper was a good one because there is a fog walling that part of his mind off and I cannot pierce it.

Disgusted with him and myself, I retract my fangs and allow him to fall to the ground with a thump, blood running in thin rivulets from the holes in his throat. His eyes blindly follow me when I rise and pace, silently cursing my ineffectuality. I am not used to failure, and he represents failure. I have suspicions but no actual data, nothing I can give Eric when he arrives, and he will arrive.

Soon.

I return to the warlock and take out the gag, using the cloth to wipe his bleeding throat. There is little personality behind those eyes now, his mind caught between my glamour and the spell's compulsions. I may have pushed too hard in my quest for answers, but I find no pity in my heart for him. His kind is a truly alien race more horrific than any bug-eyed, big-headed, gray-skinned being mortals picture descending upon the planet in saucer-shaped silver ships. Witches are insidious creatures who are able to blend into the populace with little problem because, though not human, they share many of the same physical characteristics.

How his kind entered this plane of existence is unknown, though there are enough accounts of human encounters with god-like beings throughout the ages to know they arrived a very, very long time ago. For obvious reasons, there is little research and first-hand knowledge of their race, so most of our information on them is vague, problematic, and spotty. I could be considered the foremost expert on Witches by virtue of surviving decades of torture at their hands, yet I am still mystified by so many of their actions.

Why now? Why the fuck now, after nearly a century of peace, are they breaking the Covenant between us and moving against the Southern Kings and Queens? What do they hope to gain?

My train of thought is broken by a slight disturbance in the air; the displaced molecules are bending contrary to their nature. I blur to the warlock's side and bring him back to my chest before I look up.

Eric's landing is quiet and surefooted, a lithe grace I cannot help but admire, though I ensure no emotions cross my face. I may have to account for my presence in his Area, but I will proceed with caution: my instincts tell me I can trust him, yet I haven't survived this long in my second life without protecting myself at all times. The warlock stirs restively against me when my fingers unintentionally tighten on his shoulders, causing his bones to creak onimously.

"Florica," the syllables knock together like stones overcome by rushing water. "Pam said you sent for me."

I gingerly lay the warlock on the ground again and slowly rise to my feet with hands outstretched. Vampires are faster and stronger than humans, but among our own kind, it varies depending on age and blood-lines. By showing him my hands and keeping my eyes downcast, I am telling Eric I come in peace and with no ill intentions. It is a greeting only the older vampires still know and occasionally adhere to; if they're not in blood lust, that is.

"You were schooled."

His words are chilled and precise, the flawless diction a precursor to darker intentions, I am sure.

"I've studied so I may serve the elders with distinction." I speak both truth and lie.

Apparently he could hear the ambivalence in my voice. "Bullshit." He wraps a hand around my throat and forces me to raise my eyes. Burning cobalt ensnares me as he tries to force his will upon me and crack my mind open so he can control me. It is an incredibly difficult thing to do and shows the tremendous power Eric wields.

I surrender to him and sag in his grip. There is no point in fighting him on a physical way, and resisting him mentally it will gain me nothing as well. I have come into his territory with every intention of asking for asylum, so I must submit to this indignity.

"I knew when you walked through my doors you weren't a fucking Court Flower. I didn't know _who _or_ what_ you were, just knew you weren't a dancer."

"Well, I could be."

"Not with that attitude. You don't think I didn't notice how Rasul deferred to you? Or how you went into a fighting stance when you thought he was threatened? Did you really think I wouldn't recognize's Satine's scent? She was one of the most prized Flowers in decades, if not centuries before Rasul stole her away. I may be blonde, but I'm not a fool."

His words fly at me with the speed of bullets as I reassess the direction of this conversation. I ignored the possibility of him knowing Satine, despite his words to Rasul earlier in the evening; I had based my expectations on faulty observations, instead of relying on the intelligence revealing him as a canny leader who survived insurmountable odds at various points in his long-lived life, and still managed to come out on top.

He was Appius' get after all, and _that_ one was infamous for swathes of destruction through much of Europe when he was in a pissy mood.

"So you're more than a pretty face?"

His fangs snap down at the challenging tone I adopt, and I immediately drop my eyes and turn my face to the left, baring my pulse point to him. The line between submission and insolence is very thin and I must tread cautiously. I want him to think me weaker than him, therefore controllable, but at the same time, I do not wish to become indentured.

"Who are you?" Each word is punctuated with a shake as if I were a rag doll.

"I am called many things, but for now you can call me Violet."

"Violet? Not Florica?"

I shrug and drop my chin. He has not tasted me yet, so I have appeased him for now.

"I figured the name fit the dance."

"Why did Rasul bring you? What is his true aim in coming here?"

"I am being..._punished_...by Queen Sophie-Anne and I convinced Rasul to smuggle me out. Rasul was coming here anyway on business of the Court as he said." Of course, now I suspect he was sent to his death, because for some reason, our illustrious queen wanted to dispose of her Royal Guard and newest Emissary. Baseless speculation for now.

"And why would he agree?"

A wholly feminine smile stretches my lips upward and I flutter my eyelashes slightly as I peer up at him.

Disgust mars the cold perfection of his features and his hand loosens. "Done in by a fucking cunt. You get kicked out of Sophie's bed and now you're taking your revenge on her by leaving?"

"I wish it were that easy," I mutter.

A blond brow arches in interest and silent question.

"I have valuable information that the queen doesn't want anyone to have for some fucked up reason I can't fathom. What I'm about to reveal is treasonous, but she's being unreasonable." I throw a hand in the direction of the prone warlock. "That's one of the many signs something is _certainly_ rotten in the state of Denmark!"

Eric cranes his neck around me and stares down. "Who is that?"

I cautiously turn my head to see the disguise has melted away revealing a decidedly non-Asian non-vampire: the blond hair is nearly the same color as Eric's, while his skin has taken on a ruddy freckled cast, and he grew at least three inches, so Chow's clothes are bulging at the seams.

"That, my dear Sheriff, is Chow."

"Bullshit."

"Well, technically he _was_ Chow through the miracles of modern magic."

I daringly put my fingers over his and open his hand so I may slip from his grasp. Eric ignores my actions as he walks away to crouch down next to the warlock. He prods the male, and leans down to sniff him.

"You bit him?"

"I tried to get information for you; find out when he became Chow. Unfortunately, whomever cast the spell is fucking good."

"You bit a warlock?"

I smile weakly. "Hand, really." Not that makes it any better since Hands are the martial aspect of the coven.

His eyes blacken as his fangs burst from his gums, and he is upon me again, pinning me against the unforgiving ground.

"You will tell me who the fuck you are, or I will end you right here, right now. No vampire could drink a Hand without consequences."

The threat of the final death is very real, yet I have walked the cusp of it so many times, at the hands of so many different beings, it no longer terrifies me any more than physical pain. Everything has an end, even immortals, despite what he may think.

"I am Vampire."

My cheek splits beneath the force of his blow and I cringe from his anger even as I feel the embers of my banked temper beginning to flare.

"Fucking lying whore. No vampire can drink the blood of Witches."

His fangs are fully extended and lethally sharp as they scrape against my throat.

"They can if they were held captive and forced to drink the blood to survive."

He freezes over me, his substantial weight mashing me even further into the dirt. I can feel every inch of his long body, from the muscled contours of his chest and abdomen, to the thick ridge of his cock lying turgid against his left thigh. Violence and blood is interchangeable with sex for Vampires, so I am not flattered by his erection.

"You were part of the exchange?"

"No," not a lie, but not the whole truth. "I was released before the Covenant was struck."

Eric moves then, settling deeper between my splayed thighs, his cock as much a weapon as his fangs; the moon is higher now and I can see his eyes are still black with blood lust. If I do not proceed cautiously, he will let slip the dogs of war and we will fight.

"So tell me," he purrs into my ear, his breath stirring the baby hairs curling around my temples, "how does an abomination become royal bed sport?"

I break his grasp immobilizing my arm, and my hand is a pale blur as I slap him with my considerable strength. There is relief in not holding back and his head rockets to the side with a snap.

"I am Violet Crow, Royal Assassin of Queen Sophie-Anne's Court, and I was sent here to destroy you."

He cocks his head at me and huffs a little in my face. "Are you aware of how melodramatic you sound?"

"Yes," I admit sheepishly, "It sounded a lot less pretentious in my head."

"The Queen's Crow, huh?"

There is no surprise in his voice or eyes; in fact, I can see icy blue bleeding through the black, which meant his blood lust is finally receding.

"You've heard of me?"

"You're a fucking urban legend. I believe you believe you are the Crow."

_Great._ I reveal a closely held secret and he disbelieves me. I squirm under his body and grunt when he just adjusts and settles heavier on me.

"Eric are you done playing with her or can we get the fuck on with this?"

Apparently Pam has returned. Goody.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, staring down at me with a considering look. "I don't know how you escaped the demon, but you will tell us the truth of you."

"Uh, about him."

The blue has almost completely conquered the black, but at my hesitation, his pupils begin expanding again.

"Yes, what about him?"

"He's indisposed right now."

"Indisposed how?"

"I dislocated his jaw and ripped out his tongue."

"Tell me you're fucking kidding right now."

"I'm fucking kidding you right now."

"Pam, go check on Furtur."

"But..."

"Pam!"

Surprisingly his harsh tone does not quell her rebellion because instead of hastening to his bidding, she argues. "Jag har sagt er att hon var trubbel!"

"Är det verkligen tid?"

I sigh. "Jeg kan forstå dig."

Trust me when I say, you really have not lived until you see a thousand year old Viking Vampire and his child gaping in stunned incomprehension.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter gave me a lot of trouble because I was having issues finding Eric's voice. I'm so used to being in Violet's head now, it's weird trying to write Eric, but it's important I find my balance since he will now become an important part of her life. Hopefully he's not too much of a disappointment and I will have an easier time writing him. *crosses fingers* Here's hoping! Also, ten points (not that they're redeemable for anything good) for knowing the three Shakespearean plays I referenced throughout this chapter.  
**

**Language lesson:  
**

**Jag har sagt er att hon var trubbel: I told you she was trouble (Swedish)**

**Är det verkligen tid? : Is this really the time? (Swedish)**

**Jeg kan forstå dig : I can understand you. (Danish)**


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